


Survivor's Guilt

by LaughingSenselessly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Award: Best Future Fiction, Bellarke, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Despite the description this is not just a pregnancy fic, F/M, Future Fic, I don't know how to tag this, Post-Series, that doesn't even come in until later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 102,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/pseuds/LaughingSenselessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s no one else to live for anymore.” Clarke utters those words without too much emotion. They’ve had time over the years to reflect on all the people ripped away from their lives. It’s no longer a fierce, stabbing pain, just a kind of endless ache that surges and subsides with every breath they take. After all their efforts, they failed. The story of the Skai Kru would die with them. “We’re the last of our people.”</p><p>Bellamy finally looks up at her tone of voice and after a pause he says, slowly, “We don’t have to be.”</p><p>--</p><p>(Life After.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. send me on my way

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my lovely betas: Maggie aka [@redstringbanshee](http://www.redstringbanshee.tumblr.com/), and MJ aka [@queenclarkegriffine](http://www.queenclarkegriffine.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who are both very busy people and yet made time to read and edit the truly amazing typos out of my fic. Also, they are both fucking hilarious and their comments made me laugh so much. Yall are AWESOME.
> 
> I know this fic has a rather dark premise. I was in a dark sort of mood when the idea first came to me partway through season 3A. But it's actually shaping out to be a lot less depressing than I originally thought, which is a nice plus. Still gonna be plenty of angst though because I live for that shit. In any case, I hope you enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> _This story was winner of the[Best Future Fiction category](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/148204129945/congratulations-wellsjahasghost) in the 2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Awards!_

Clarke doesn’t know how long she’s been hanging upside down in the forest, but she’s spent every second of it silently berating herself for being so _stupid_.

The one thing she knows is that she’s making progress.

By “progress” she means whenever she can work up the energy, she hoists her upper body up and works at the knots on the wiry rope that’s holding her in the air. She’s actually undone a fair amount of them and has dropped several feet closer to the earth. She’s onto the last few knots and if she reaches _really_ far down, she can almost touch the ground.

The problem is she’s _exhausted_. She’s letting her arms dangle limply at the moment, and when she hears feet crunching in the leaves somewhere out of her line of vision, she can hardly even react.

It takes her only a second to decide playing dead is the best way to go about this situation— not like she really has another option— and closes her eyes so that she can see only a sliver of the world in front of her.

She hears the footfalls come nearer, and then “Clarke?” From behind her.

Her eyes open. “Oh thank god,” she exhales. “Bellamy, please get me out of this.”

He moves around her and into her line of vision, and his upside-down expression is near murderous. “What is this?” He leans forward to touch her ankle. Clarke hisses in pain as the wiry rope cuts even deeper into her leg.

“Clarke, you’re bleeding.”

“Just get me down,” she says weakly.

He’s scanning the forest. “I’m trying.” He spots something. “The rope is fixed in that tree,” he says, and he looks like he’s making to climb it when they hear a distant sound from the forest.

Bellamy freezes and Clarke’s heart kicks up to an anxious rhythm.

“New plan,” Bellamy says abruptly, shaking his head and coming forward towards Clarke. “Hold on to me.” He stands in front of her and she watches as he pulls his ax out from the waistband of his cargo pants. “I’m going to cut you down.”

“Hold on to you?” Clarke repeats. “What do you mean?”

“Just put your arms around me,” he hisses, tossing a glance over his shoulder before he begins hacking away at the thick wire and rope that’s holding Clarke up by her leg. “So you don’t fall on your head.”

Clark hesitates, because she’s eye-level with his crotch, but then he makes an impatient noise and she shoves her discomfort away into the back of her head and reaches her arms around his hips. She’s hugging him tightly to put as much weight as she can on him, and that means her head is practically pressed against his groin, but she’s turned her head to the side and just hopes he won’t see her cheeks redden.

He must notice, though, because he stands rather stiffly as he hacks her down. And then her legs are free and they swing downwards. Bellamy is ready for that, easily catching them both on his shoulder.

Before she can get a word out, he’s readjusting her in his arms, into a fireman’s lift.

She huffs as he sets off briskly into the forest. “I can walk, you know.”

“Not on that leg, you can’t,” he responds easily. “And you’ll bleed all over the place, which will lead them right to us.”

She takes a breath to retort but he beats her to it, “Just shh,” he chastises, and she feels him cocking his head, listening for sounds, before he sets off again.

“I’m never letting you go looking for herbs by yourself again,” he mutters after a few minutes. “From now on, we’re not going anywhere alone.”

Clarke is affronted, first by the implication that Bellamy _lets_ her do anything, and second by his new vow. “But you’re always so _impatient_ when I take you to look for mushrooms—”

“And you always scare away the game when you go hunting with me, so yeah, I’m well aware of the downsides of this approach,” he cuts her off darkly. “Still better than the alternative.”

“The alternative being independence?” Clarke mutters.

Instead of answering his hand merely reaches up to slap her thigh in playful reprimand. She hides her smile into the back of his jacket, even though she knows he can’t see it.

They need these moments of levity, because without them, they are lost.

That fact becomes apparent when they reach the dropship clearing, and Bellamy stops in his tracks, bending at the knees to let Clarke off his shoulder.

She gingerly sets her feet on the ground, testing her weight on her injured leg. Bellamy holds onto her arm in case she falls, but although the wound is bleeding and hurts a bit, it’s not too serious.

When they both turn to face the dropship clearing, their work of the past several months extends before them. From this vantage point, Clarke can really see the scope of work they have done.

The clearing around them is no longer flat and grassy; it’s filled with small dirt mounds, stretching in every direction. Seeds in every one, a seed that would eventually grow into a single forget-me-not.

One flower for every Sky person.

Back at Mount Weather, Bellamy and Clarke planted flowers for those people, and all the others they could remember who died at their hand. It was their tribute. But this clearing was a special place, reserved only for _their_ people.

Every single one; the ones who died on Earth, and the ones who perished on the Ark, those lost in the Culling. To ensure that no one was left behind in their final journey to the ground. They are all here now; all of their people lie surrounding the dropship, the place where it all started.

Clarke can turn her gaze to the left and tell exactly which mounds are the people from farm station, and she can turn her head to the right and identify her family members and the friends she considered to be family members - she can point out Wells, who she’s planted closest to the dropship.

She knows he’s already got a grave nearby, which is now overrun with moss and weeds and flowers springing from the Earth, but she thought he deserved to be buried with the rest of their people here, too. It’s the least she can do for her best friend now.

Nearly all the ground is covered in the mounds of dirt, but there is one circle that is conspicuously free of them, still flat and grassy; and that’s at the foot of the dropship, a little place for the both of them to rest their feet in between planting. Bellamy and Clarke. The only ones left.

It’s strange, Clarke still thinks, how _that_ happened. Because somehow, she never saw it coming.

—

There was no warning: just a slow receding tide, life picking off their friends one by one, the occasional brutal massacre that took many at once, and Clarke hadn’t even realized it was happening until it had. But somehow, despite her best efforts, they were all _gone_ now and she cursed herself that she didn’t see it until the last massacre where the remainder were wiped out. The extinction of the Sky People.

They had no one left. No one except each other. They were the last survivors. It was Bellamy who voiced it first.

“We’re the last Sky people,” Bellamy said to her, after they both stopped crying. He almost sounded like he was going to laugh, absurdly enough.

Clarke _did_ laugh, which was more absurd.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Just something she’d told Emerson, a lifetime ago.

Afterwards, the two of them were lost. They sat in the ashes of their people for days, and when they couldn’t bear it any longer they wandered. They had no place in mind, but somehow they ended up at the root cellar.

Maybe it was because it was the place where everything had really started between them. It had been that night under the tree that they finally decided to work with each other; it was there that a mutual agreement had been forged in Dax’s blood and Bellamy’s tears and Clarke’s whispered reassurances, that together, they would handle anything the world threw at them.

(The world took that challenge very seriously.)

And yet they were still standing. Swaying, knees close to buckling, perhaps; but holding each other up nonetheless.

They were all that was left in the world, so they returned to that cellar and found almost nothing. It had been stripped bare of all useful supplies, it seemed. All useful supplies, that is, except for a bin of flower seeds. Forget-me-nots, to be exact. The meaning isn’t lost on Clarke.

And that was how they’d gotten this idea. Perhaps there was nothing left to survive for but the one last thing they could do for their people: pay tribute.

Now, gazing down on their handiwork months in the making, they are done. They had finished earlier that day, which was why Clarke had gone to aimlessly collect some herbs before she got trapped, and Bellamy’d gone off with his ax under the pretense of hunting. But they both know the truth of what they’ve been avoiding: after serving their last purpose, they are at a loss of what to do next.

—

That night they sit at the foot of the dropship as Clarke bandages her ankle and Bellamy coaxes a campfire to life. It’s a nightly routine for them: Bellamy starts a blazing fire and they both watch the smoke drift up into the sky, and Clarke’s sure she’s not the only one who’s found herself hoping once or twice that vicious Grounders see it and come running.

Of course she’s not that lucky, though.

But tonight it’s even more sober than usual. They have no aim anymore, and that fact stands between them awkwardly. Normally, on a night like this, they would be murmuring to each other as they ate, repeating names of people, “Did we make one for that one boy— the one who was friends with Mel?” And “Oh, we forgot that one couple, the Jonson’s, they died in the Culling, write them down,” and they’d keep track on paper and on the inner wall of the dropship, writing names onto the metal with bits of limestone so that in the morning they’d remember to plant a seed for them. That was what they _did_ ; it was their lives.

And now, suddenly, it isn’t anymore.

As Bellamy wordlessly hands her a piece of slightly charred rabbit over the fire, she voices her thoughts. “It’s so strange,” she murmurs, ripping a long piece of meat off the stick. Despite it’s blackened skin, it’s juicy and tender; she doesn’t really register it’s taste, though. “I’ve lived so long only existing to help our people that I don’t even remember what life was like before that.” He’s silent so she goes on. “When I was living for myself.”

“Can’t imagine,” he says, staring into the fire. The light reflects off his irises, setting them alight to a gloriously warm brown. Clarke is reminded by his two words, spoken almost wistfully, that he has not lived for himself since he was six years old.

“I guess we have to learn, then,” Clarke says firmly. “There’s no one else to live for anymore.” She utters those words without too much emotion. They’ve had time over the years to reflect on all the people ripped away from their lives. It’s no longer a fierce, stabbing pain, just a kind of endless ache that surges and subsides with every breath they take. After all their efforts, they failed. The story of the Skai Kru would die with them. “We’re the last of our people.”

Bellamy finally looks up at her tone of voice and after a pause he says, slowly, “We don’t have to be.”

She’s reaching for another bite of meat when he says it, and she pauses mid-chew to look up at him carefully. He’s already looking back into the fire, expression inscrutable. “What?”

She thinks he might be— _blushing_?, but it’s hard to tell with his brown skin and the glow of the fire. “Forget it.”

That is, of course, a sure-fire way of making sure Clarke doesn’t forget it. “Bellamy,” she says, lowering her food from her mouth to focus on him. Her heart is suddenly beating absurdly fast and her throat is rather dry. “Are you talking about having… kids?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, gaze still very much fixated on the fire. “I just… you sounded like…” he takes a deep breath and lifts his head, looking her square in the eye, and then he speaks with conviction. “Yes, that’s what I meant. If that’s what you wanted.”

There’s a long silence between them, where he’s snagged her attention and she’s finding it a bit difficult to look at him and yet she can’t look away, because suddenly she’s imagining them… doing… _that_...

Her face heats up quickly and she ducks her head, hoping he won’t notice through the curtain of her hair. Bellamy’s usually freakishly good at picking up on just about everything she’s feeling, unless of course she’s feeling something about him, in which case he tends to be completely blind. “I used to want that,” she says in reply, keeping her voice even while wishing she could douse herself in ice water right about now. “I used to want a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

She debates saying it— because it’s silly— but she knows he won’t judge. “I used to want to get married,” she reveals.

He smiles a bit at that. “You did?”

She toys with the edge of her threadbare shirt, suddenly feeling shy. “I don’t know. I always saw my parents as being so in love, and I wanted that for myself. And mostly just a big, flashy wedding. I _know_ ,” she says again quickly when he opens his mouth, “it’s seems so stupid and childish now, but—”

“It’s not stupid, Clarke,” he cuts her off softly. “I get it. We all had dreams. Things we wanted.”

Something else he’s said in the past suddenly comes to the forefront of her memory: _I wouldn’t even know what to wish for_.

She asks the question she didn’t ask back then. “What do _you_ want?” She asks, softly.

His gaze is suddenly heavy. “You,” Her heart skips a beat before he finishes the sentence, just a fraction of a second longer than it should have taken, “safe.”

She sighs, her breath blowing her hair out of her face for a second. “That’s not even an answer, Bellamy.” Yet, she knows it is. Even when there’s no one else left in the world to live for, he still will not live for himself. He lives for her now, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Maybe she’s less upset than she should be about it because she kind of feels like she’s doing the same for him. All they have is each other.

 _Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way_ , a tiny voice in her head says. She tries to ignore it.

—

(She fails.)

—

That night, before they fall asleep by the smouldering remains of their fire, Bellamy watches her try to pull the tangles out of her hair with her fingers.

“Here,” he says finally, moving across the small space to crouch behind her. “Let me do that.”

Clarke drops her hands immediately without argument, because her arms are tired. Every part of her is tired. She feels his long, deft fingers replace her own, carding through her waves of hair and working at the snares gently. He’s good at it.

He must have learned for his little sister, but Clarke doesn’t ask because he gets sad when he talks about his sister, just like how she gets sad when she thinks about her mother. Besides, Clarke knows for a fact he’s learned a lot of things from raising Octavia. He was so good with the younger ones of the original hundred; he could be so gentle and kind with them, or stern if they weren’t behaving.

She thinks he’d be good at it— Being a real father.

The thought comes unbidden to her mind, and she immediately tries to shake it off. But she can’t. The more she tries to get rid of the thought the more strongly it pushes into the front of her mind, and all the while he’s braiding her hair, his breathing warm and steady behind her ear.

She’s clutching her knees very tightly when he finally ties the braid off with an old piece of twine and she lets out a relieved sigh when he moves away from her. “Thanks,” she manages.

He walks back to where he was sitting, across from her, and offers her a small smile. “You don’t act very thankful,” he jokes quietly, laying down in the patch of grass. “I’ve braided your hair countless times, and you haven’t returned the favour once.”

She smiles too, appreciating the trace of humour. His hair brushes over his eyebrows and curls over his ears, but it isn’t anywhere near long enough to braid. “I give you back massages, you ungrateful ass.”

“That was _once_.”

She rolls her eyes. “You want another one?”

“I’ll hold you to that, for later.” And then Bellamy, still lying down, extends one of his arms out in silent invitation.

“Deal,” she says with a yawn, and crawls over to him to lie down beside him, her head automatically tucking into his shoulder. After she settles down against him he wraps his arm around her.

It’s a nightly thing for them now, to sleep under the stars from which they came. They’re blissfully vulnerable here, out in the open, and have yet to be picked off. Clarke isn’t really concerned either way. She’s here with Bellamy and she wants to be with him until the end, and she wants that end to come with his. Whenever that may be.

—

When Bellamy wakes, she tells him she wants to leave. He’s relieved that she’s the one to say it first.

They’ve laid their people to rest, and there’s nothing left for them here. The dropship is now silent where it was once lively, a lifetime ago. It is a graveyard in its own right; the place where everything had started and the point at which, Bellamy thinks, Fate had decided that they were doomed.

He’s not sure how long the rest of his life is going to be, but he knows he doesn’t want to spend it here. So he asks the question that’s left as he stands up, turning his neck from side to side to get the kinks out. “Where are we going to go?”

She stares off into the distance for a moment. He notices most of her hair has been tugged out of her braid overnight, and resists the urge to push it away from her face. “I don’t know,” she answers, finally looking at him with a calm look in her eyes. “But this time, we’re going together. From now on, _wherever_ we go, we go together.”

She’s sure, he can tell that. He can see it in the set of her jaw, the uptick to the corners of her mouth, and the certainty in her eyes— those riveting eyes; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a pair like hers. They are bright, keen with intelligence, and their blueness reminds him of the sea.

He reaches behind him and grabs his jacket off the log he’d thrown it on last night, shaking off any spiders (it’s become a habit). “Wherever the hell we want?” he offers dryly. He throws the jacket over his shoulders as he turns back around, quick enough to catch Clarke’s eyes lingering on his arms before flicking back to his face.

He pauses.

It confuses him when she looks at him like that. Like she’s... attracted to him. Sometimes he thinks he’s just imagining it, like wishful thinking. He _knows_ he didn’t dream up her blush last night, though.

He hadn’t meant to say the thing about kids, in all honesty. It was just a thought. And if he was being completely honest with himself he could see that for them, too. More than anything, a child would give them purpose in their lives again, something they haven’t had in so long.

Or maybe he is absolutely fucking crazy, seeing as even just a year ago he’d never even dream that he’d be proposing having kids with Clarke Griffin. Maybe they’re both just two very lonely, twisted, and selfish people who would bring a child into a very dark world simply so they would have something to do with their time.

That’s probably it.

Meanwhile, Clarke smiles at his terrible joke, and he feels a ridiculous glimmer of pride for making the edges of her mouth curl upwards.

They pack up their meager belongings— it’s really not much— and then they’re standing at the edge of the clearing, looking back at their handiwork for the last time. The situation should probably have more gravity to it, seeing as this place holds so much meaning to them, but Bellamy doesn’t really feel much except vaguely peckish while staring at the broken down thing. Clarke yawns lightly beside him.

Just as he’s about to turn and walk into the forest, Clarke says out of the blue, “Should we do the Traveler’s blessing?”

Bellamy thinks about it. Those words have made up so much of their heritage on the Ark, it only seems right to repeat it back to their people. “You can do it,” he tells her.

She turns back to the scene in front of them. “In peace may you leave this shore,” she says clearly. Her voice, and the breeze that stirs lightly about them to ruffle their hair, are the only sounds Bellamy can hear in this moment. “In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels…” she pauses, and Bellamy glances at her to see her brow furrowed. She takes a breath and closes with, “Until we meet again.”

Then she bites her lip, looks at him for reassurance. Like _, did I do the right thing_?

He doesn’t even have to ask why she took out the part that she did: _until our final journey to the ground_. Those words are not needed here.

As they gaze at the dirt mounds that will one day spring forth with flowers, he thinks that perhaps what he and Clarke have done here is even more fitting than they thought, in a macabre sort of way.

He reaches out a hand to bump his palm against Clarke’s fingers in a comforting touch. Her eyes still search his expression desperately, but his throat is feeling oddly closed off, so he simply nods.

—

They leave the dropship behind.

—

They walk. Time passes. Things are much the same as they were at the dropship: calm, silent, uneventful.

Until they aren’t.

—

It starts when they pass by a river. Honestly, Bellamy knows they shouldn’t have stopped, but they did, because Clarke gasped and pointed and said “Look!” And when there was that much excitement in her normally listless voice, Bellamy listened.

“It’s that red seaweed stuff,” he recalls, watching it float near the riverbank. The same stuff they had to go find at the very beginning, when Jasper was speared by the Grounders, and they managed to save him.

Temporarily, at least.

Clarke’s already bending down to roll up her pants around her ankles. “We have to go collect some.”

He sighs. He recognizes her tone of voice; she’s not to be argued with. He does anyway. “Why?”

“It’s useful, Bellamy. What if one of us gets hurt? I hardly ever see this stuff around anymore. This might be our only opportunity to grab some.” She starts heading carefully down the riverbank, and with a sigh he follows her down. As they retreat from the treeline, he starts feeling more than a little paranoid. They haven’t been out in the open in days; they’ve been sticking to the forest, and he feels exposed. It’s completely stupid, he knows. The Grounders haven’t bothered the two of them at all, and it’s not like he and Clarke have been trying to hide from them. Quite the opposite, really.

However— and it’s not a suspicion he’s shared with Clarke just yet— It makes him think they’ve got something planned. And he’s afraid, for Clarke’s sake. So he keeps his hand casually resting on the waistband of his jeans over his jacket, ghosting over the gun he’s got there. He’s got an ax and she’s got a knife, but they’ve only got the one handgun now, and it’s only got two rounds.

He hasn’t had to use it so far.

He keeps his eyes on Clarke for the most part, but he’s also scanning the trees just in case. “You got about enough yet?” He calls dryly.

Clarke is splashing around in the shallow part of the river a little downstream from him, bent over at the waist as she collects large heaps of the slimy looking red plant in her arms. “Ha, ha,” he hears her say distantly. “Why don’t you be useful and come help me.”

He almost smiles to himself at that and begins to walk a little closer to the riverbank, and that’s when he sees it.

It’s on the other side of the river, and farther downstream; closer to Clarke’s side than him.

He thinks his eyes might be deceiving him for a moment, which is why he doesn’t immediately shout a warning to Clarke. Hallucinogenic nuts are really the only thing he can think of to explain the giant _gorilla_ crouching silently in the opposite treeline.

He’s actually surprised he didn’t see it before, but it’s camouflaged pretty well. It’s darkly coloured with keen, intelligent eyes and looks a lot more intimidating than any picture he’d seen in his Earth Skills textbooks.

It’s also a hell of a lot _bigger_.

For the time being it appears to be occupied, bent over something it’s eating that Bellamy can’t see.

“Clarke,” he says, softly. He doesn’t want to scare it. Maybe it doesn’t even know they’re there.

Clarke doesn’t have such reservations. “What?” She calls irritably, splashing around in the river with abandon. He winces. Every loud slosh feels like it’s cutting a year off his life.

His hand travels under his jacket and grips the metal of the gun tightly now. “Don’t panic,” he warns her evenly, “but look to your one o’clock.”

She turns her head towards him at his tone of voice, and when she sees the look on his face she turns her head to where he’s directed her.

He’s looking at the back of her head, but he can see the way her back tenses when she spots it, and he hears her sharp intake of breath and her murmured curse.

He takes his gun out of the holster, taking a step towards her. “Clarke, just—”

She throws a hand out in his direction. “Don’t come any closer.” She bends down to grab another piece of seaweed and— god, she’s trying to kill him early, isn’t she?

“ _Clarke_ ,” he hisses, now rooted to the spot at her direction. “That’s enough with the fucking seaweed.”

“Just this last piece, then we go,” she promises. “It’ll be good to have a lot of it—”

“All the seaweed in the world isn’t going to help you if that thing rips your arm off,” he says through gritted teeth. “ _Leave it_.”

She looks to be debating it, and that’s when the monstrosity looks up and sees them.

Bellamy abandons pretense and points the gun at the thing, clicking off the safety.

There’s a good three seconds of silence, and then the gorilla _roars_.

It’s loud, and fucking scary as hell, and the hairs on the back of Bellamy’s neck are standing up. “ _Clarke_ ,” he shouts now, because that roar didn’t exactly sound friendly, and neither does the way the gorilla is rising to full height.

Clarke takes a step back, trips over something under the water, and splashes backwards. The seaweed tumbles out of her hands and scatters around her in ripples.

The gorilla charges— no, it _leaps_ straight across the river. Straight at Clarke, who’s still in the shallow waters of the river. She’s backing out now, running up the riverbank eyes wide with fear, but he can tell, the thing is too close and she’s not going to make it—

His heart seizes. No. _No_.

He fires the gun as the gorilla lunges.

The bullet hits, he can see by the way the monster’s shoulder is thrown backwards a bit, giving Clarke enough time to take off towards the treeline.

“ _Go_!” He roars at her. She doesn’t need to be told twice, in flight mode already as she darts into the trees. Meanwhile, the gorilla has turned its attention towards Bellamy, nostrils flaring with an animalistic anger.

Good.

Bellamy turns and runs into the trees, in the opposite direction that Clarke just went in. He hears the monster’s heavy footfalls, accelerating as it chases him. It’s probably one of the most terrifying sounds he’s heard in his life.

One glance behind him and he can actually see the irises of the gorilla as it gains on him.

He runs a little faster.

His heart is leaping as he runs as fast as his legs can carry him— he can’t see a damn thing except for brown and green blurs of the underbrush flying underneath his feet, can’t hear anything except for his own heart pounding in his ears, and he has absolutely no idea where the hell he’s going except away from Clarke—

Something small tackles him around the middle as he’s running; unprepared and unbalanced, he falls sideways, taking his attacker with him.

They roll several feet through the forest from their combined momentum and then there’s a slope— of _course_ there’s a fucking slope— and then they’re tumbling, an ungainly mess of limbs down a steep incline. Bellamy doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down for several painful, disorienting seconds, but he sees a flash of blonde hair before they finally come disentangled and continue rolling separately and Bellamy _finally_ gets enough of his bearings to see that they’re at the edge of a cliff.

They’re just pitching over the edge, and he can’t see where the cliff leads, but he has just enough presence of mind to grab Clarke— whatever of her he can grab before she topples to her death, which turns out to be her elbow— and with his other hand scrabble for purchase against the cliff’s edge.

Then, finally: a second of silence, and they are motionless.

Bellamy finally has the time to truly catalogue their position right now: His right hand is clutching a jagged rock jutting out of the cliff face, and his left hand is in the opposite direction, holding onto Clarke’s elbow. They are dangling off the cliff, anchored only by Bellamy’s hand. The cliff’s edge is shaped outwards from the face in such a way that their feet are too far away from any footholds to help them back up. In effect, they are dangling into the sky.

He glances down to make sure she’s okay. Her eyes are wide as saucers, and there’s a scrape across her cheek, and her hair is all over the place, but other than that she seems fine for now. And that’s all he can ask for.

Bellamy tries not to focus on the fact that the trees down in the valley below look like pinpricks and instead turns his senses towards the immediate danger.

Bellamy can hear the great beast just beyond the cliffside, sniffing around and shifting on its feet. Neither Bellamy or Clarke dare utter a word to each other, but he looks down at her and she looks up at him with fright etched into her features. He’s sure he looks the same. And he holds on tighter, ears straining for more information. For several agonizing seconds they stare at each other and listen to the monster’s footsteps as it wanders around where Bellamy and Clarke were rolling down just moments ago. Bellamy’s wrist begins to ache from so tightly holding on to the rock face, and he can feel sweat dripping off his nose from the exertion of it.

Then finally— _finally—_ after a good minute, he hears hear the massive gorilla snort and amble back into the trees. It’s footsteps fade into the undergrowth, the sounds of it stepping on branches echoing further from a distance.

He holds his breath for another half a minute, until he can’t hear a thing except for birds chirping merrily in the distance and he’s certain the monster is gone. His arms are shaking with effort now— he experimentally tries to lift himself up. It’s not happening. Clarke is heavy on his other arm, and his hand that is anchoring them both to life is barely clinging on as it is. He’s being split in two different directions, and the strain on his chest is only too happy to remind him of it. He allows himself a deep breath before he turns his attention to the girl he’s clinging to, feeling frustration welling up in his veins.

“Clarke, what the _hell_?” If she hadn’t tackled him, he might’ve been able to draw the monster over the cliff instead. Instead, they’re now stuck in this situation.

“You didn’t see it,” she retorts between shallow breaths. “It was almost on you, Bellamy. It was about to take your head off. I yelled at you to duck but you didn’t hear me.”

He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Always the goddamn hero,” he bites out.

Clarke mutters something about the pot calling the kettle black and tries to grab his arm with her other hand. It doesn’t work— the way she heaves herself up causes his sweaty fingers to lose their grip and she starts to slide away from him.

She makes a squeaking sound before he finally gets a grip on her again, but now he’s grabbing onto her wrist and she’s more than ever dangling precariously. It hurts.

She must see the look on his face, the way he’s scrambling to figure out a way to get them out of this. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. “You can let go of me. It’s okay.”

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, blinking back sweat. She keeps talking.

His hard grip on her wrist must be agonizing her but she sounds perfectly calm. “Bellamy, it’s okay. You can’t pull both of us up. One of us should walk away today.” Her voice is laden with fatigue and acceptance. And that’s what gets him.

His eyes fly open, weariness forgotten as he glares down at her. How dare she? How _dare_ she say that? If anything, his grip on her wrist tightens, and he bites out at her, “You through?”

She blinks from below at this, as if she’s not been expecting it. It infuriates him.

He grinds his teeth together with new resolve. “Because that’s not happening.” She has the _gall_ to say that to him? As if he could just let go of her, and up and walk away. As if his life is worth anything without her by his side. It’s nothing. The single reason he hasn’t strung himself up with the noose still sitting on the floor of the dropship is because there is still one person he hasn’t failed yet. Still one other person who hasn’t made their final journey _into_ the ground. And it’s her.

A fucking radioactive monkey isn’t going to be the end of Clarke Griffin. Not after everything. Not if he can help it.

His desperation translates into frustration that they’ve even found themselves in this stupid situation. He grinds his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut, and he channels that rage at the world into his arm.

He starts lifting Clarke with his one hand, grasping her wrist, and it hurts it hurts it _hurts_. Involuntarily, he opens his mouth and lets his pain out through his vocal cords, by _screaming_ it.

His yell echoes across the canyon, silencing all other noise.

“Bellamy, don’t,” Clarke says rather sadly from below. He ignores her.

Somehow, the yelling is cathartic; it gives him the strength to lift her just high enough with his one forearm that she can grasp onto his jacket with her other hand and he can finally let go of her wrist. Then she’s reaching out as well, scrabbling for purchase on the cliff edge.

She misses the first few tries, and his arms tremble from keeping them both up. The rock he’s been holding onto for the past few minutes shifts in its place embedded in the wall. Great, just what they need— less time.

The rock shifts again, and his heart leaps in terror— They are about to plunge to their deaths.

But then Clarke gets a hold of the edge with her hand, solid enough that Bellamy lets go of her other one so she can grab the ledge with both hands. She hoists herself up, shakily; it takes her a few tries, and in between each one he leans in her direction so she can sit against his shoulder to support herself.

She huffs in exhaustion, leaning her head against her arm. “Bellamy, I can’t.”

“You can do it,” he encourages. She’s still sitting on his shoulder, so he nudges her thigh with his nose. “Clarke, I know you can.” She takes a deep breath upon his utterance of her name and lifts herself, and this time she makes it, her forearms trembling. He watches with relief. She’s kneeling on solid ground, out of harm’s way _finally_. He really couldn’t be happier right now.

“Your turn,” Clarke announces after only a moment of rest, stretching a hand down to him now. He’s holding onto the ledge with both hands and now that the initial adrenaline is wearing off he’s so tired, _this_ close to just letting go. His arms feel like lead, especially the one that lifted her up. She must see that weariness in his expression because she frowns fiercely and grabs his arm. “Come on,” She says sternly, pulling. “I need you too, Bellamy.”

It’s the callback to the beginning that gives him the incentive to breathe deeply and pull himself up, and together, finally, they manage to hoist him onto solid ground as well.

Neither of them can seem to stand, so he just grabs onto her around her waist and pulls her close. She automatically winds her arms into his jacket to hug him. There’s a minute where they just breathe, and Clarke says in a forlorn sort of way, “I lost all the seaweed.”

He laughs, and the sound is loud and almost harsh because he’s dizzy with relief. On impulse he takes her face in his hands and presses a hard kiss to her forehead. It’s an action more for him than for her, to feel her warm skin against his lips and reassure himself that she’s alive, she’s _here_ , he’s not alone.

But maybe it reassures her too, if the way she leans into it even when he tries to move his face away is any indication.

“Clarke, who cares. You survived a giant gorilla,” he says against her skin.

Her shoulders shake in a silent laugh. “I’ve actually seen it before,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

He pulls away briefly to look her in the eye. She’s not joking, he can see that. “What?”

She shakes her head and leans her face back into his neck. “It’s a long story.”

Bellamy can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it, which is fair. There’s a lot of things they don’t like to talk about. That’s okay with him; he’s content to just be here with her, sharing a companionable silence.

A sudden wailing sound cuts through the air, and both of them startle.

Clarke lifts her head and pushes away from him, glancing towards the sound. “What _was_ that?” It sounds like it’s coming from nearby.

The sound starts up again.

 _Really_ nearby.

Bellamy’s already rising, one hand automatically going to his gun but not pulling it out because… the sound is familiar.

Clarke comes to the realization at the same time he does. “Oh my god.”

“It’s a baby,” Bellamy confirms. Now that he’s connected the dots, he’d recognize the sound anywhere. Although, this baby’s crying sounds a little lower pitched, a little less throaty, than Octavia’s ever did.

 _Octavia_.

He banishes the thought immediately from his mind and starts slowly walking forward. Clarke is doing the same. They’ve only taken a few steps towards the treeline when Clarke points. “Look!”

He turns his head to the left where she’s pointing, and he sees it as well. There’s something lying near the treeline.

Clarke starts for it immediately, but Bellamy puts a hand out to stop her. “It might be a trap,” he warns.

Clarke makes a face at him. “Do we really care? There’s a child over there, Bellamy.” She brushes off his hand and continues up the slope.

He watches her go for a moment before following with a sigh.

When he catches up to her, Clarke is kneeling over the bloodied body of a Grounder woman face-up in the dirt, nearly hidden away by the tall grasses around them. She doesn’t look like a warrior, Bellamy thinks; she doesn’t have the armor, or the weapons save for a knife strapped to her hip. The basket lying upturned beside her, with herbs spilling onto the dirt, just confirms that. Bellamy turns his eyes to the body itself— Her eyes are open and unseeing, and there’s a long slash down the middle of her tunic, so deep that Bellamy sees parts of the human anatomy that he’s only ever heard Clarke talk about. As it is, he nearly gags at the sight. Clarke doesn’t seem to have the same reservations.

“Be _careful_ ,” he hisses, but Clarke’s already got her bare hands on the Grounder’s shoulder, turning her sideways. And the wailing becomes crystal clear: the Grounder’s got a child strapped to her back in a sling.

The child looks to be a boy, but it’s hard to tell— he has dark brown hair and green eyes and that’s all Bellamy can see from under all the wraps, it’s been swaddled up so thoroughly. “Shit,” he mutters, and he forgets his own warnings about traps as he slides the straps of his bag off his shoulder and crouches beside the baby, carefully working the sling off the dead woman’s back. Clarke helps him get the thing off. As soon as the sling is free, Bellamy works at the tight cloth knots with his thumbs to free the kid.

“No wonder he’s been crying,” he tells Clarke. “He’s overheating in this thing.”

“He can’t have been out here long,” she says, watching his hands work. “This woman died recently. A few hours ago at most.” She turns back to the body and murmurs, “That monster probably did it. It looks like a claw mark, doesn’t it?”

Bellamy isn’t paying attention because he’s finally got the kid free and is lifting him up. He looks to be maybe a year old, maybe a little more than that. Bellamy’s not sure; it’s been awhile since he’s seen a baby. It’s swaddled in only a loin cloth and a little necklace around the throat, with a golden-painted metal heart on the threadbare string. Some random Grounder trinket, he guesses.

The baby is still crying loudly, and _goddamn_ it because there’s a soft part of Bellamy that just gets absolutely melted by children. “Hey, hey,” he says softly, bouncing the little kid gently up and down on his arm. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Shhh.” The baby continues crying, but now he’s clutching onto Bellamy’s arm like his life depends on it, which, it sort of does.

He looks up, expecting to see Clarke patting down the Grounder’s body for supplies they can scrounge, but instead she’s sitting back on her heels and watching them with an inscrutable look on her face. Then she blinks, realizing he’s staring at her quizzically, and turns towards the grounder, her wavy blonde hair falling over her profile in a curtain. “She’s got some useful stuff with her,” she tells him as she rifles through the Grounder’s pockets, sounding a bit— flustered? “Um— she’s got those little bottles of antidotes, we can use those…”

Bellamy swipes the baby’s sweaty hair out of his face— it’s dark, but straight and thin and extraordinarily soft. He’s stroking the fine hairs away from the baby’s forehead when he sees the dark tattoo on the side of his face, dancing over the curve of his round jaw and stretching towards his forehead. It’s a scattering sort of pattern, and he cocks his head at it. It looks like splotches of black, no obvious image forming from it. It’s like an inkblot test.

He voices this last part out loud, and Clarke laughs gently, tucking the supplies she’s relieved the Grounder of into her pockets. “Then what do you see?”

“Stars,” Bellamy replies immediately, angling the baby’s head in Clarke’s direction so she can see. To him, the negative space looks like twinkling stars of different sizes and shapes. It’s like a painter dipped their brush into the night sky and splashed the galaxy-speckled paint across the right side of the child’s face. “Going to psychoanalyze me now?”

She cocks an eyebrow at him playfully. “Stars? There’s really nothing to add to that, I think.”

Bellamy almost smiles but he’s too occupied thinking a little further into the situation they are currently in. “Clarke, what are we gonna do with him?”

She delivers him a sharp look. “You can’t be trying to say we should just leave him.”

Bellamy throws the obvious deterring fact out there. “He’s a Grounder.”

“He’s a _baby_ Grounder!” She sounds outraged. “What, you think he’s going to stab you in your sleep?”

“Look, I’m not saying we should leave him,” he retorts. “But listen. Obviously his mom’s dead but his dad’s gotta be alive somewhere, right?”

She sees where he’s going with this, begins nodding her head with a little hesitance. “So what’s going to happen when the Grounders come looking for him.”

Well, Bellamy knows the answer to that question. The Grounders have a way of twisting literally every possible action the opposing party could make into something they can justify stringing them up and cutting them open for. Bellamy’s certain he and Clarke would be painted into child kidnappers who have regular tea with the Devil. Combining that with the fact that, well, he and Clarke aren’t exactly friends to the Grounders to begin with, and he’s left chewing his lip in indecision.

But— his gaze strays back to those large, round green eyes— it’s a _baby_.

“We need to find his people, before they find us,” he summarizes his thoughts gravely.

Clarke sighs. “And where the hell are his people, Bellamy?”

Bellamy is silent for a moment. Considering how the coalitions between clans are just a feeble memory of the anarchy that has succeeded them, he has no idea how to answer that question. In any case, it’s not the time to be mulling over that right now. He stands, gesturing for Clarke to do the same. They need to get out of here; they’ve been sitting in the open for far too long, and all the commotion is bound to bring curious eyes to the area at some point. They’re pressing their luck.

—

The kid starts crying as soon as they’ve taken not ten steps away from his mother, and no amount of rocking seems to do him any good.

Clarke can see Bellamy getting more and more antsy the more the baby wails in his arms, so after a few minutes she reaches out to take him instead. “Let me try.”

“You going to convince him you’re his mom?” He says sarcastically as he passes the baby off, scanning the treetops with a keen eye. He’s been in a bit of a mood ever since they picked the child up.

“Babies are more likely to be afraid of strangers who are male rather than strangers who are female,” Clarke informs him. “It’s an evolutionary mechanism, since women tend to be caretakers and men tend—”

“To kill them,” Bellamy finishes tersely. Clarke notices he’s got his hand resting rather firmly on where she knows his gun is hidden as he continues looking around their surroundings. “If the child isn’t theirs.”

“Right,” Clarke says, wondering why she’s surprised he understands this because he’s proven time and time again to be much smarter than he’s been given credit for. “All we have to do is convince him that you’re not going to kill him.”

“Who says I’m not?” Bellamy mutters darkly, as the kid wails a particularly loud cry. Clarke’s not worried. Bellamy’s all bark.

Just when she’s going to reply, a pungent scent invades her nostrils, so strong she almost drops the child.

She stops in her tracks, though, so Bellamy wheels around wildly, his gun already out. “What?” He says, completely alert. “What do you see?”

She almost laughs. He thinks she’s seen Grounders or some other threat, but in reality… “Bellamy, he’s crying because he’s— well—” She scrunches up her face and holds the baby up in front of her by his armpits. Now that she’s paying attention, she notices the cloth swaddled around his bottom is bulging out. “He needs a diaper change, so to speak.”

Bellamy’s expression is priceless.

—

It takes them a while to find a source of water, and in the meantime, Clarke braves holding on to the baby for the hour or two it takes— in exchange for Bellamy promising to clean him up when they get to the river.

“And you can take a bath in the meantime,” he says to her when they get to the lake. It’s a nice location, cozy, not out in the open, with a rock wall on one side of it— one less side to keep eyes on— and what looks to be waist-deep water.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she tries to say, but he waves her off.

“We’ll take turns if that makes you feel better.” When she doesn’t move, he says, “For god’s sake, Clarke, wash your hair. I can’t even see the colour right now.”

She throws her bag at his face for that, and he chuckles a bit as he sits at the water’s edge, folding his long legs beneath him and starting to unwind the baby’s loincloth.

She stands a few steps behind him and strips, shoving her jeans and panties down her legs in one tug and her threadbare shirt and bra pulled over her head in the next. Then she walks forward and dips her toes into the water.

Bellamy doesn’t even look up. They’ve seen each other naked before— _that_ particular line was crossed back when they were both co-leading a group of teenagers in a dropship. When there’s only one source of water nearby for washing, everyone kind of gets used to seeing everyone else in the nude.

(Didn’t mean it didn’t cause problems— They were horny teenagers, after all. She distantly remembers Bellamy viciously chewing out a group of boys who’d been ogling a few girls out for an afternoon swim.)

But she and Bellamy had always bathed at different times, alternating so that one of them was always at camp. The one time it happened, she remembers being at the stream and thinking she was alone, but she realized after she’d undressed and dipped her toes in the water that he was here, already in the water, too. She even remembers what he said to her.

“You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before, Princess,” he’d said good-naturedly when he saw her scramble to cover herself. His gaze wasn’t lecherous at all though, matter-of-fact more than anything.

She’d glared at him, desperately trying to fight off a blush.

“Worried about a power imbalance?” he’d asked in a playful manner, and then without warning he’d planted his dripping arms on the rocks and hoisted himself out of the water in one push. Clarke fought hard to keep her jaw from dropping.

“Consider the playing field leveled,” he’d said with a wink before he bent down to grab his clothes and stalk off into the dark.

She remembers thinking he was such an arrogant _ass_. But then again she also remembers getting herself off sometime later with the thought of his lean, tan body rising out of the water. So she probably has no room to talk.

Shaking off the memories, Clarke dips her toes gingerly into the water, testing it— it’s cool, but not unbearable. She looks down at Bellamy, who’s scrubbing at the baby’s soiled wraps. “Soap,” she says.

He holds his hand up to offer it to her, eyes fixated rather studiously on the baby. But when her fingers brush against his palm, his eyes rise almost automatically to meet her eyes, and then quickly back down.

She thinks he may be… _blushing_?

Probably not, she decides. The colour of his skin makes it hard to tell.

Clarke wades into the creek, shivering slightly as her body slowly gets submerged until she’s at waist level, and tries to erase thoughts of Bellamy from her mind as she scrubs at her hair and shoulders with the little nub of homemade soap they have left. Behind her, she can hear Bellamy’s quiet, low rumble as he presumably talks to the little Grounder. She can’t make out any words from where she is, though.

He tries so hard to act like he doesn’t care, but she sees the way his gaze softens when he looks at the child. She doesn’t think he can help it. He’s just good with kids; she thinks it’s been a product of his upbringing.

She hears the baby babbling distantly, and Bellamy’s voice again. It’s deep and delicious in tone, and somehow it always has the power to loosen her up at the core. God, that voice would sound so good in bed.

She banishes the wild thought immediately from her mind, but it’s too late— it’s already had an effect. And it doesn’t really help when she’s standing naked, and has to forcibly stop herself from rubbing her thighs together.

She knows she shouldn’t even be thinking this, but— it’s not like this would be the first time, she’s rather ashamed to admit. Bellamy, he’s— objectively— very attractive. And when he’s playing with children, it’s… doubly so. Seeing him interact with a child again, his protectiveness emerging for someone other than her, has a strange effect on Clarke. The sweet ache she’s trying to squelch only starts to pulse again, slowly, agonizingly. She knows, logically, that this is just another evolutionary mechanism. She’s supposed to be turned on my men being caretakers, because millions of years ago that was kind of what was needed in a mate. Children benefited from a caring father.

Except, she reminds herself firmly, she has no plans of making Bellamy a father.

His words back at the dropship suddenly echo through her brain.

_We don’t have to be._

She shakes the thought out of her mind. She’s going a little crazy, she thinks. This isn’t a world she wants to bring a child into, so why does it feel like she’s beginning to seriously consider it? And with _Bellamy_? That would just be fraught with complications. So _no_ , it’s not happening.

To distract herself from the sudden and unwelcome onslaught of feelings, she tries to scrub at her hair with the soap, but the arm that was clutching onto Bellamy’s for dear life earlier in the day is sore as hell, and she finds herself barely even being able to lift it. The whole ordeal nearly wrenched it out of its socket. And both arms have already been thoroughly fatigued from carrying the baby around all day.

She tilts her head, trying to get a better angle to reach her hair, but to no avail. After a few minutes of struggling, she’s almost resigned herself to grungy hair when Bellamy calls out, “Let me do it.”

Her cheeks burn a little bit, knowing he’s been watching her struggle. “It’s fine,” she replies eventually, turning her face just a bit so he can see her small smile of reassurance. He’s still sitting on the shore with his pants rolled up, and the baby is fast asleep in his arms. She turns away again, sinking lower into the water.

He doesn’t reply, and she thinks that’s the end of it with a little bit of disappointment. But after a moment she hears loud sloshing coming from his direction; when she turns her head again the first thing she sees is the baby swaddled up and nestled in a nest of Bellamy’s shirt on the shore, and then the vision is blocked by his body as he reaches her.

He’s right behind her, chest radiating with heat. She turns back around fast to hide her cheeks flushing with heat. One of his hands takes her left elbow, and the other gently pries the soap from her right hand. “Who knows when we’re going to be able to wash our hair again,” he says, and all she can do is nod mutely. “Let’s do it right.”

Bellamy resumes washing her hair, and she closes her eyes and tilts her head back at his soothing ministrations. “You’re good at this hair stuff,” she jokes weakly, in part trying to take her mind off the burning that has not yet receded from her lower belly.

He sweeps her hair back, fingers brushing against her shoulder blades. “I’d be better if we had shampoo.” She can hear the smile.

Clarke sighs, looking down at her hands. It’s a quiet joke, but she doesn’t take it that way. “We really need to learn how to make better soap.” Actually, they need to learn how to make better everything. For most of their lives on the ground, they’ve been leaders, delegating out these smaller, less existential tasks to others. Clarke thinks she took it all for granted.

And now they’re alone, the only ones left… no, Clarke _knows_ she took it all for granted.

Bellamy twists her hair into a rope, wringing it out. He doesn’t reply for a long time, but when he speaks he sounds vaguely surprised. “You want to make more soap?”

“Well, yeah,” she says, confused. “So our hair doesn’t smell, you know. And also so we can clean the baby’s clothes properly.”

He pauses in working her hair through again, and now Clarke realizes why.

After everything that’s happened, neither of them have given any indication to the other that they really care to _live_ anymore. All they’ve done is exist, day to day. They’ve been careless with their time, unworried about the uncertainties of the future. And now, here Clarke is, caring about otherwise inconsequential things, talking about how they need soap to clean things and clean the baby they’ve taken responsibility for. She’s talking about making plans for a _future_.

She realizes after it’s too late to take it back— and she’s not sure she wants to— what she is really asking him: _Do you want to try again_?

“Yeah,” he says quietly, finally. His hands resume massaging her scalp. “Yeah, we should do that.”

—

She returns the favour and washes his hair after he’s done, because it doesn’t really hurt her arm to do so, and she really only stops running her hands through his curls when the baby wakes up and starts crying.

They make their way back up to the shore to get dressed. They turn their backs to each other and tug their underclothes on, and then they wash their old clothes, which are stiff with dirt and grime and God knows what else.

While Bellamy washes his blue shirt, the Grounder baby crawls around his lap. Clarke can’t help but watch the spectacle out of the corner of her eye. Bellamy looks to be ignoring it until the baby slaps hard at his chest. He pauses and looks down, a small grin crossing his features. The baby tries to crawl up his chest now, reaching for Bellamy’s nose, but he easily swats the little fingers out of the way. “Don’t even try it,” she hears him say, and then he playfully tweaks the baby’s nose instead.

He glances up at her, and although she works to keep her expression neutral she’s suddenly self-conscious, like maybe he can see right through her indifference. Like he knows she suddenly can’t stop thinking about what he said at the dropship and that she’s now unable to get rid of the thought of climbing him like a tree.

Their gazes are locked for a millisecond before the baby yawns into Bellamy’s shoulder and he looks back down.

“We’ll get you home, Junior,” Bellamy promises the little kid quietly.

“Junior?” Clarke repeats, coming closer. “That’s… cute.”

She’s amused and it shows; he gives her a look. “I’m open to other suggestions.” He turns back to Junior. “We’re going to get you home.”

Clarke crawls up behind Bellamy, peeking over his shoulder to look at Junior’s face as well. “As fast as we can,” she agrees. “We’ll get you home.”

—

That night when they camp out near a cave, Bellamy starts a fire as usual, but it’s small, not drawing attention to itself with a lot of smoke. Clarke diligently rips apart pieces of fish and feeds them to Junior, finding out that he’s got some very sharp incisors. She has to chastise him a few times for gnawing on her fingers, and he seems to understand her sharp “ _No_ ,” if his little pout is anything to go by. Bellamy watches them from across the fire, one hand resting perpetually on his hip where his gun is.

They’re careful with themselves now. Something’s changed.

That night they go to sleep curled around each other as always; but this time, the baby in between them.

—

In the morning, while Clarke is heating water over their fire, Bellamy suddenly reaches out and grabs her hand.

She gives him an odd look, but he’s looking down at her wrist, turning it so her palm is facing up. And that’s when Clarke sees.

There are dark blue bruises blooming on her arm, in rough finger shaped patterns. It’s from where he pulled her up from the cliff, having clung to her too tightly. Her breath catches at the sight. She hadn’t even realized the bruises were there; they don’t hurt at all.

He runs his thumb over the marks, a touch so gentle that she can hardly feel it, yet it still zings up her spine and makes her feel a little bit lightheaded.

(She may be a little bit touch-starved. A little bit.)

He lets out a breath, the air whooshing over her skin and raising goosebumps. “I’m sorry.” His words are heavy, laden with bitterness, like he’s blaming himself for something monstrous.

And that’s so… that’s so _wrong_ to her that she immediately scrambles to correct him. “Bellamy.” She reaches out with her other hand and covers his. “They don’t even hurt, and besides, they’re there because you saved me. I’m happy to get those kinds of bruises.” She offers him a small smile, but he’s still not looking at her.

His jaw works. “My mother used to come back home with bruises like this.”

Oh.

Bellamy doesn’t talk about his mom a lot, but Clarke knows what his mother did to protect him and Octavia. “This isn’t the same thing,” she tells him. “You know that. You weren’t trying to hurt me. It’s okay. They’re not bad, they’re good,” she tells him, running her fingers over his knuckles in what she hopes is a soothing way. She needs him to know she doesn’t see them as bruises— no, they are brilliant nebulas softly painted on her skin, a beautiful reminder that there will always be one person who has her back.

He’s still not looking at her, still eying the bruises Clarke has now covered with her hand, something haunted in his eyes. When he’s like that, she can tell he’s staring into an abyss, caught up in memories. And it’s up to her to pull him away.

It’s what he’s done for her countless times. It’s what they do for each other. It’s what they’ve always done, and now that they are all that are left, it’s more important than ever.

“Bellamy,” she tries again, leaning forward until their noses are almost touching to try to get him to look at her. “It’s _okay_. I know you didn’t mean to bruise me.”

After a moment, some tension seems to relieve itself from his shoulders, and he lifts her wrist the miniscule distance to his mouth to press a soft kiss to her pulse point. “Well, I’m still sorry.”

She wonders if he can feel her heart skipping a beat under his lips.

Junior makes a babbling sound, jarring them both out of the moment.

—

Things change when, a day later, they come across a house.

They round a corner, and there, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, is a huge, sprawling white house— no, a _mansion—_ , with gleaming pillars and huge windows and three floors, and everything else Clarke’s seen in the old movies on the Ark.

For all the tests of time it must have withstood, it doesn’t look very dilapidated. The pristine white has faded, perhaps, and the lawn is rather wild and long, but it has charm. There’s a garage attached to the house that has peeling paint where she can see the wood peeking out. Circumventing the property is a stretch of road that goes all the way around it, almost serving to wall off the property from the outside. One end of the road stretches past the house, far, far, _far_ into the distance of the flat grassland they have found themselves in, and Clarke strains her eyes but still can’t see where that road might end.

“It’s a highway,” Bellamy says with wonder. “Look, Junior, it’s a highway.” Junior, fast asleep in his sling, pays him no mind.

Clarke’s about to wonder how he knows that, but then she looks up and sees the sign. It’s a narrow rectangle that stands on a metal pole, green with a white border and faded letters. Clarke knows enough about life Before to infer those faded letters spell out Highway, though she can’t make out the number.

“How is it still here?” She wonders aloud. The war should have destroyed everything, but here is this beautiful house in the middle of nowhere, looking almost untouched and surrounded by road. The highway itself is in relatively good condition; but the concrete is worn, riddled with holes, and gnarled with the strength of roots and grasses that have fought their way through it.

She doesn’t really expect Bellamy to answer, but he does, and his voice is dark. “It must be one of ALIE’s old houses.”

The mention of something from their past life— from forever ago— is almost like a cold bucket of water tossed over her head. Her heart beats a little faster, her ears prick up, and she has to work to steady her breath.

He’s still staring out at the house. “Jaha told us about the mansion that he found when he went looking for the City of Light. And that ALIE had more. She was maintaining this one, too.”

Not anymore, Clarke thinks grimly, shuddering internally at the memory of the lengths they had gone to to shut the AI down.

“The house is still here,” is what she says out loud, trying to sound unaffected.

He glances at her, and she thinks he knows just how affected she is by all of this, probably because he is too. “What if someone else lives there now?”

It’s a realistic assumption, in most cases anyway. Clarke has her own ideas. “Would they, though?” she asks. “The AI that destroyed the world lived in there. I have a feeling that might tick a few boxes on their superstition checklist.”

She sees a smile playing on the corners of his mouth at her retort. “You want to go check it out?”

 _Not really_ , she thinks. Superstition might be a big thing for Grounders, but deep down she also feels that unease stirring in her own stomach as well. “There might be supplies,” she reasons. “Clothes. Soap. Maybe even food.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment, recognizing the logic in this. It’s worth checking out.

They ever so cautiously creep out into the open and step onto the highway. After so much walking over soft, earthly terrain, stepping onto concrete feels strange, jarring on her knees and uncomfortable on the soles of her worn sneakers.

They cross over the asphalt and make their way through the grassy courtyard. The long weeds brush at her knees, and grasshoppers leap out of their way as they go.

The courtyard is so huge that it takes a good minute to actually get to the entrance of the house. Its rich mahogany and double-doored, with decorated, fogged glass so they can’t make out anything within. They pause at the door, and Clarke feels her heart rate kick up because even though she knows logically that ALIE is gone, it doesn’t mean being here, in the ghost of ALIE’s heart, doesn’t leave her severely uncomfortable.

Then Bellamy takes a shaky breath, puts his hands over the door knobs, and twists.

He has to push rather hard before the doors start to open, and the hinges screech with rust when he does. It’s loud enough to make her anxious, but once he’s pushed them open enough for them to step in, everything seems too quiet.

Clarke peers inside cautiously.

Shielded from nature, the inside of the house almost looks untouched. It’s all marble floors and salmon pink walls and New Age paintings hung on the walls of a corridor which stretches the length of ten dropships.

It’s… astounding. She’s never seen anything quite like it.

The only sounds she hears are their dazed breathing, and the soft touch of their feet to the floor, and the distant squawking of a crow somewhere outside.

There’s even a chandelier on the ceiling, Clarke notes somewhere in between marvelling at all the other luxury she’s never see before.

In the middle of the corridor, they stop just to take it all in, and Clarke almost feels rooted to the spot.

Junior stirs in his sling, whining and reaching out his little arms, and Bellamy almost without paying attention pulls the baby out and set him on the floor to crawl as he pleases, without taking his own eyes off the splendor in front of them.

Clarke finally voices her thoughts. “Wow.”

“Wow,” he repeats.

—

Somehow, the trepidation over ALIE fades. Clarke thinks it has something to do with the innumerable spices and the Kraft Dinner boxes she finds in a cupboard in the kitchen; or maybe the silk sheets on the bed in the master bedroom, or the beautiful, sequin lined princess dress she finds in a closet, or the crib in the corner of that closet.

Bellamy, for his part, is fascinated with the huge wall of books they find in the study, and he spends a good ten minutes just running his finger over the spines before they move on. They find soap in the bathroom— Bellamy waves it at her triumphantly and she laughs— and she finds a stock of pads on the shelf behind the mirror, which she’s already looking forward to using the next time she gets one of her very irregular periods, instead of the same rags over and over again. And they’re both awed when they turn the tap and there’s _running water_ — ice cold, of course, but still.

And then they go downstairs and discover a den where there’s a power generator that Bellamy tries winding up and when he does, the TV across from the couch blinks to life for a few seconds, which surprises both of them so much they stumble backwards and fall over each other onto the couch.

There’s another door, a simple one, that leads into the garage; and she can see the youthful giddiness that passes over Bellamy’s face when he registers the sports car, gleaming and slickly black, that lies there. Although, his excitement fades considerably when he pops open the hood and there’s nothing there. It’s just a shell.

But then Clarke points out the motorcycle sitting in the back, and he lights up all over again.

While he’s trying to turn it on— it doesn’t seem to be working, although it appears to have all the parts— Clarke finds two bottles of wine hiding in a crate, and she presents them to Bellamy with a silly grin on her face.

She can’t take it anymore, keeping this feeling of giddiness inside her chest. “ _God_ ,” she marvels, hitching Junior higher onto her hip. “I know I said we should just check for supplies but can we stay here? Just for a little while?”

He laughs a little at that, straightening up from where he was examining the motorcycle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Just a little while,” she reassures. She’s not sure who she’s trying to convince. He just nods and echoes her.

“Yeah. Just a little while.”

—

Life is… truly strange, in a wonderful sort of way, for the next little while. They rather quickly fall into a routine; Bellamy still hunts and Clarke still forages for fresh food (they can’t live off _just_ boxed macaroni), but in the evenings they sit with Junior in the living room and they relax, or Bellamy cracks open a book, or Clarke a sketchbook, and it’s— Clarke’s not going to lie to herself, it’s _nice_.

—

The first time they think they’ve found Junior’s people, it goes like this:

It’s a few days later, and Clarke is picking grasses from the top of a hill to add to the soup. Bellamy’s with her, thanks to his newfound vow to stick by her side when she goes out foraging, and Junior is tearing up weeds from the ground in handfuls, making babbling sounds.

Bellamy is keeping watch, apparently, because while she’s kneeling in the long grasses she feels his hand on her shoulder. “Clarke.”

She instantly reads his tone and glances up, seeing that he’s looking somewhere

They’re at the top of a hill, where Clarke has been picking edible grasses for soup with Junior strapped to her back. Bellamy’s holding their bags and keeping watch, which is why he’s the one to notice first, grabbing her shoulder. “Clarke. Stay down.”

She looks up at him. He’s sinking to his knees as he says this, nodding to somewhere in the distance. She follows his gaze.

There is a man down by the treeline.

This isn’t incredibly surprising to see, especially since now that they’ve left the dropship. They’re bound to be finding Grounders all over the place. Clarke shrugs and turns back to her task. While they wait for the Grounder to leave, she can at least gather some more grasses.

Junior chooses that moment to tug on Bellamy’s pant leg and burble, “Ba-ba!”

He is way too pleased with himself. It feels so, so damn loud that Clarke winces and Bellamy bows his head as if someone’s pointed a foghorn at his ear.

The Grounder turns his head sharply in their direction, and Clarke and Bellamy automatically flatten themselves onto the ground, onto their stomachs. The grasses are long enough to hide them, but the damage is done; he’s already heard Junior.

“Now was not a good time for Junior to start learning my name,” Bellamy grits out quietly, lips close to Clarke’s ear. Clarke doesn’t respond, because it’s only now she’s getting a good look at the Grounder’s face tattoos.

They look exactly like Junior’s.

“Bellamy,” she says quietly. “Look.”

He’s already looking that way, and by the way his lips part she knows he’s realized the same thing she has.

“Look’s like Junior’s got a dad after all,” he mutters.

“But what if that’s not what it means?” Clarke whispers back. “What if—”

“Only one way to find out,” Bellamy says grimly, and there’s no time to say anything else, because the Grounder is now walking in the direction of the hill with a look of suspicion on his face.

—

Army-crawling is a lot harder than it looks, Clarke thinks, rubbing her grass-stained elbows. They’re now watching from the bottom of the hill, and Bellamy’s got his gun out and pointed at the Grounder as he reaches the top of the hill where Junior is.

They’re both tense, watching the Grounder discover Junior at the top of the hill, and Junior babbling out a nonsensical greeting.

The Grounder man’s face immediately transforms into one of astonishment as he realizes what he’s stumbled upon. He bends down swiftly, and Bellamy’s finger tightens on the gun trigger; but the Grounder is just lifting Junior’s metal-heart necklace away from his neck and staring at it with wonder. With recognition, awe, something like happiness in his eyes. His head snaps back up, scanning his surroundings, and Clarke presses herself even flatter against the earth. But there’s no need; his gaze is wild, scattered, too emotional to really process things properly. She sees his mouth form the word “Polina?”

The wind does not answer him.

That must have been Junior’s mother’s name, Clarke thinks, and she’s now beginning to feel a strange sinking sensation in her stomach as the Grounder bends down again to the little boy. They’ve done what they set out to do, which was deliver the baby back to his parent. And now they will be able to move on.

But to what, exactly?

Bellamy blows out a quiet sigh beside her, as if he’s thinking the same thing. They’ve only had Junior a little while, but they’ve both grown… attached.

Even after everything they’ve lost, they _still_ became attached. They really haven’t learned a thing, Clarke thinks to herself bitterly.

She’s just about to half-heartedly suggest to Bellamy they get out of the open when the Grounder very suddenly rips the necklace off Junior’s neck, snapping the cord. And then, before Clarke is really able to process this turn of events, the Grounder reaches behind him to unsheathe his sword and raises it above him.

 _No_! Clarke wants to scream, but there’s not even time to open her mouth.

Before he can swing, a gunshot rings out, so close to Clarke’s ear that she shrieks. The Grounder stumbles, dropping the sword behind him. Then he teeters on his feet and pitches backwards, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

Clarke turns her head to see Bellamy having risen to a crouch, his gun extended, still smoking slightly, and a very murderous look on his face.

Junior, still at the top of the hill, begins to cry.

They don’t speak to each other, just scramble up automatically and stagger up the hill as fast as they can. Clarke barely offers a glance at the Grounder; Bellamy put a bullet right between the eyes, with no hesitance at all. And that was the _last_ bullet, she realizes as she watches Bellamy kneel in front of Junior, shielding him from the dead body of the man who tried to kill him. Their last bullet, their last upper hand against the world, and Bellamy used it without any hesitation to protect a little boy they hardly even knew.

“Shh,” Bellamy cooes, hoisting Junior into his arms. “Bellamy’s here. Don’t worry. We’re not going to let anyone hurt you.” Junior continues to cry.

Clarke snatches the heart necklace from the dead grounder’s fingers and turns away to examine it. What was so important about it that the he wanted it? She runs her thumbs over the tarnished surface, and when she feels a small hinge on the side she’d never noticed, she realizes this isn’t a just a pretty ornament. It’s a _locket_.

She struggles with it for a moment, not sure how it opens, but when she figures it out it pops in two halves rather easily.

Lockets are supposed to hold photos, but this one has a tiny folded square in it. She pulls it free gently, wiggling it minisculely as to avoid tearing it. She unfolds it to find a piece of paper as large as her palm, and an incredibly detailed drawing of two people on it.

Her breath catches. One is a woman, and she’s Junior’s mother without a doubt. It’s clear as day— The artist who drew this was amazing. Clarke might feel a little envious if she wasn’t thinking so hard about who the man in the picture must be.

He’s got a large, bushy beard, heavy set eyebrows, and a tattoo on his throat that reminds her of the shape of a scythe.

It definitely doesn’t look like the dead Grounder.

Bellamy’s still soothing Junior, so Clarke comes up behind them and rests her chin on his shoulder. “Bellamy,” she says over the baby’s wails, holding out her hand. “Look at this. That’s his dad, isn’t it? Are they both dead and that’s why no one’s come looking?” She’s still so confused.

He’s silent for a moment, but when he does answer her he offers no explanation. “Maybe Junior here’s just like us,” he says softly. “Maybe there isn’t anyone left in the world for him.” He looks over his shoulder at Clarke, their faces so close that the hair that brushes against his ears tickles her nose.

She nods. “Maybe he’s lost like us, and we should all just stick together.”

She reaches for his free hand, and he lets her curl her fingers around his large palm. Glancing at Junior, now sniffling quietly against Bellamy’s shoulder, she can’t help but feel a sense of relief that they didn’t lose him today.

—

They resume their aimless existence together, but now it’s with more confidence; it’s with a new, permanent companion by their side.

And that makes it feel a lot less aimless, if Clarke’s being honest.

 

_— ONE MONTH LATER —_

 

“Okay, your turn,” Clarke says.

Bellamy rolls the dice, gets a six. When his game piece gets to the square, he reaches for one of the designated cards. “It’s telling me I can either have a baby and earn life points, or don’t have a baby and get twenty thousand dollars.”

“How are you going to have a baby by yourself?” Clarke giggles, reaching for her glass of soda. “Divide in two?”

He points at his game piece, a little car with two little people sticking out of it. “I’ve got someone in my life already, Clarke,” he says in a mock serious voice. “And we got married. Jesus, pay attention.” He drums his fingers against the game board. They’re long and thick and calloused, but Clarke knows for a fact that the pads of them are soft with just the right amount of scratch.

She realizes she’s rubbing her thighs together subtly and stops herself immediately. That keeps happening and it _really_ needs to stop.

They’re sprawled on the carpet of the living room with an old board game in between them. Junior sits playing with his toy cars beside them, occasionally venturing onto the game board and prompting a scolding from both of them. It’s a regular night.

“Married, huh? So are you going for the kid, or the money?” She smirks at him, propping her chin up on her hand.

He returns the smile with a slow one of his own. “Money can’t help us down on earth— Junior, get _off_ the board, for the last time.”

“It could have, a hundred years ago,” Clarke muses, picking Junior up by the armpits and depositing him to the side.

“I want the kid,” Bellamy says, putting the card to the side.

Clarke’s breath catches; he’s said this casually enough, but as usual there’s a tension there that Clarke is maybe just imagining— but it’s there, nonetheless, and it won’t go away, not since he first brought it up, all those months ago.

Maybe if they just talk about it, they could get to the other side of this weirdness, she thinks to herself. But she just doesn’t know how to bring it up.

Also, she’s not sure that talking about it would have the… rational outcome.

“Your loss,” she replies, going for light-hearted but failing miserably. She just sounds breathy instead. She thinks he notices, because his eyes flick up curiously.

“Ba-ba!” Junior complains. Clarke takes this opportunity to tear her eyes away from Bellamy since she apparently can’t do it on her own, and she freezes when she sees what Junior’s doing.

Junior, on the other side of the room, is… walking.

It’s just a little step, but he is. He’s walking by himself. He’s putting one foot in front of the other and Clarke has to clasp her hands over her mouth because _oh god he’s walking all on his own_.

Across from her, she hears Bellamy’s short intake of breath.

Junior’s brow is furrowed, like he’s concentrating, and he wobbles on his two feet.

Clarke finds herself strangely close to tears. “Here, Junior,” she croons, scooting forward until she’s a foot away from him and extending her arms. “Come to Clarke.”

Bellamy glances at her, and damn if there isn’t a bit of a competitive glint in his eyes because then crouches too, on the opposite side of Star and holds his arms out as well. “Don’t listen to Clarke, Junior. Come to Bellamy.”

Junior has already taken a step, a little baby step in Clarke’s direction, but upon hearing Bellamy’s low voice, he turns and seems to be frozen with indecision.

Clarke wiggles her fingers, trying to make her voice as soothing as possible. “Junior, baby, come over here. Bellamy’s just going to talk your ear off about rifles and other boring stuff.” She sees Bellamy shoot her a glare and represses a giggle.

“But Clarke will draw you and that’s worse,” he retorts to Junior, who’s still standing in place, wavering, “and she’ll make your ears too goddamn big—”

Clarke finds herself laughing despite herself. She’s drawn him in the past, many times, but the one time he brings up is when she was just doing half-hearted sketches of him. “You ass, I didn’t draw your ears big—”

“Then how do you explain the fact that I looked like that elephant Dumbo—”

Clarke’s positively playfully outraged at this, and she’s narrowing her eyes at him— there’s a smile in his eyes, he’s just fucking with her, she knows that— but then the boy’s legs teeter and he starts to collapse to the ground, having lost balance.

Clarke’s heart skips, and it’s completely irrational because it’s not like he’s going to fall to his death, he’s just going to fall to his knees, but she shoots forward to try to catch him. What she doesn’t count on is Bellamy doing the same, so they’re both darting forward simultaneously.

Bellamy’s arms are longer than hers, so he’s the one that manages to catch Junior. Meanwhile, Clarke falls forward so that her forehead knocks against Bellamy’s in an ungainly sort of way. Junior remains unharmed between them.

Bellamy, lightning fast, hoists Junior out of the way and to the side of them before he can be sandwiched between their bodies. Clarke feels her cheeks flaring up with heat and she leans her head back. But suddenly there’s a hand at the back of her neck, holding her still.

She stares at her lap for a moment before raising her eyes to his. His eyes are dark but solemn, the joking twinkle in them fading fast.

The way he looks at her is a little intense sometimes, like he’s staring into her soul. It makes her feel a little breathless right now, with his hand cupped around the back of her neck. Junior gurgles happily beside them, blissfully unaware of Clarke’s pounding heart and her increasingly shallow breaths.

“Clarke…” Bellamy’s voice is nothing but a raspy whisper, like a piece of sandpaper that’s sending tingling throughout her body at just her own name falling from his lips…

Her eyes dart down to his mouth and back up to his eyes. She sees it register in his gaze that she looked at his lips, and he releases a shuddering breath.

She feels the fingers of his other hand on her jaw, the touch light and delicate, but so insistently there. She can’t ignore the way they feel like they’re searing into her flesh. She can’t ignore the way she has to swallow when he tilts his head like he’s searching for something, and she’s definitely not ready when he pulls her close and leans in.

Before their lips can touch, Clarke is jerked backwards by a tiny hand.

Cheeks flushed, she looks back, where Junior is frowning at his lack of attention and tugging on her pretty silk blouse.

“Mama,” he whines, and Clarke freezes. She feels Bellamy stiffen.

“Christ,” she hears him mutter.

“Junior, I’m not your…” Feeling doubly frazzled, she smooths back her hair and sighs. “Want to go to bed?” she asks the little boy.

He nods, crawling into her lap.

—

Half an hour later, Junior is peacefully sleeping in the crib and she dallies unnecessarily long watching him so that she doesn’t have to go downstairs. She debates not going downstairs at all, and just going to bed. Because she doesn’t know _how_ she’s supposed to act around Bellamy now that she almost let him kiss her.

God, that was really _not_ supposed to happen.

But then she hears the hardwood downstairs creaking and him call from the base of the spiral staircase, “Clarke?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” she replies back automatically, flexing her fingers and steeling herself.

But when she gets downstairs again, he’s cracking open one of their two bottles of wine in the adjoining kitchen with a soft grin on his face. There’s no indication of unease on his face at all.

She exhales, glad that they’re not talking about it, and tilts her head. “I thought we were saving the wine.”

“Junior took his first steps today,” he tells her. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s considered a special occasion.”

She accepts the glass he offers to her. “Or maybe you’re just tired of waiting.”

“Maybe,” he says agreeably. They clink glasses, a wordless toast to _what_ exactly Clarke isn’t sure, but it feels like there’s something meaningful behind it.

They wander back into the living room to finish their board game while nursing that bottle of wine, and as the evening goes on their laughter only grows louder, and their cheeks more flushed, and she finds herself taking more opportunities to touch him.

He doesn’t reach out to kiss her again, and she’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Both of them are decidedly more than tipsy when they finish the game.

Bellamy collapses onto the couch after his triumphant win, tugging her into his lap. “I won,” he says smugly.

Clarke, now straddling his lap, snatches the bottle of wine from his loose grasp and downs the last gulp, throwing her head back to do so and pushing her chest forward. He nuzzles playfully at her collarbone with his nose while she does. Then she wipes her mouth and throws the bottle to the side. “But I got the last of the wine,” she retorts, placing her arms on his shoulders. “So who really won here?”

His lazy grin stills and fades away, and he begins watching her sway on his lap in a way that’s more than just amusement. “I think I still did.” His voice is raspy, scraping its way into her lower belly.

It makes her heart beat a little faster, and she takes a moment to look at him, _really_ look at him. His skin is glows in this lighting, and it contrasts beautifully with the loosely buttoned blue shirt and sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms. His _lips_ are right there; beautiful and full and shapely and reddened from wine, and she’s wanted to taste that scar in his upper lip since forever. So as soon as that thought crosses her mind, she leans forward without care to kiss him. It’s just an experiment, a drunk impulse Clarke is powerless to stifle.

The first touch is just as innocent as a kiss between children. It’s soft, a butterfly kiss just to test the waters. Just to see what it would feel like.

(It feels like too much.)

After that kiss she only barely lifts her face away, so that her mouth still brushes his lower lip, as if waiting for him to move away, tell her to stop, that it’s not the right time, all of those things Clarke would have told _him_.

And it’s _not_ the right time. There’s a logical part of her that knows that she shouldn’t do this, she shouldn’t do this with the one person she has left— but in the end her hands betray her and they rise to the front of his collared shirt, clutching onto the lapels. “Bellamy,” she mutters, trying to say— what, she doesn’t know, she just wants him to get it, even though she doesn’t even know what ‘it’ is. One of her hands moves nearly feverishly up and down his chest in indecision, relishing in the feel of his lean muscle against her palm; and then over his shoulder and sliding up his neck to grab a fistful of the silky curls at the back of his head. While she’s touching him, he remains perfectly still. He lets her hands roam his chest without touching her back at all. But when she yanks slightly at his hair, something appears to snap in him.

He leans in the extra inch and kisses her again, almost bruisingly fast, and it’s exactly what she wants from him. He always knows exactly what she wants. His kiss is so forceful it bends her back a bit, but his hands are now at her waist so she doesn’t fall backwards. Her hands curl into his hair as he tilts his head, nipping at her lip to make her open up.

She does it automatically, and that’s when— oh, _goddamn_ it— his tongue comes into the equation and she’s truly a goner. It’s uncanny. She shudders involuntarily and bends herself around his body; he sweeps his hand firmly over the curve of her back in an almost massaging motion. And then he surges forward with such force that she’s pushed sideways into the cushions.

She wraps her legs properly around his torso and pulls him flush against her heat, and Bellamy groans into her mouth.

Still, he doesn’t move much further; he braces himself on one forearm, while his other hand cups her face and all he does is _kiss_ her. He worships her mouth so well that her toes curl and her body aches, but he doesn’t go any further. He just steals her breath with rough kisses, tastes her sighs with sweeps of his tongue, and all the while pressing himself only lightly, nearly tauntingly, against the place where she wants his attention the most.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” and his name falls out line a whine from her lips, but she can’t help it. She can’t help the way he makes her feel, because he’s always been the one holding her together but right now she wants him to make her fall apart.

He stills at her wanton utterance of his name, and then pulls back almost entirely, pushing himself up onto his hands so that his weight isn’t on her, and looks down at her.

She stares up back at him, confused. They’re both breathing fast.

He licks his lips; blinks several times. His pupils are blown wide and Clarke imagines hers look the same. “Clarke… I can’t do this.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow and lets her gaze travel down to where she can see his erection straining against the material of his jeans. “You sure about that?” She reaches a hand forward to touch him, but with lightning fast reflexes he grabs her wrist and pins it to the couch.

“You’re drunk,” he says, almost to himself.

Clarke barely registers this. She wriggles out of his grip, grabs the material of her shirtfront, and pulls it of her head in one fell swoop. She hears rather than sees his response; a sharp intake of breath at all the skin she’s exposed.

She shakes her hair free from static and tosses her shirt to the side. His eyes are glued to her breasts, and she smirks. The lacy pink bra she found in the closet upstairs came to some functional use, after all. “You’re drunk too,” she tells him, running a finger over his bicep. “You drank as much as me. We’re even.”

He sounds almost amused at this logic. “I’m not sure that’s how this works.”

She’s quickly losing patience with his gentleman act. “Bellamy, stop overthinking it and _fuck_ me.”

He stares at her for a long moment, gaze flicking to her lips momentarily, to her breasts again, and then slowly back to her face. “I’ll fuck you,” he agrees in a dark sort of voice, one that makes her stomach flip until he continues his sentence, “in the morning, if you still want it then.”

This is a true outrage, Clarke thinks to herself. Because there’s a voice of reason at the back of her head that knows she might not want it in the morning, but Clarke is in the _now_ and she’s a little tipsy, maybe, and yeah, maybe a little bit impulsive, but he’s just so _delicious_ and wonderful and such a good _kisser_. God, so good. She wants to know what else he can do with that mouth.

She voices that thought, and she feels his body tense. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s fighting for control, and in the meantime she pouts and strokes his shoulder absentmindedly.

That doesn’t help the outcome she’s looking for at all; instead, he suddenly reaches over her head and picks up her shirt from where she’s flung it on the armrest.

She sighs loudly. “ _Bellamy—_ ”

“Please don’t talk right now,” he says. His voice is strained.

She debates talking anyway. He’s at the breaking point of his control, and she’s sure she could push him over the edge.

(Later, she’ll be thankful for the rational part of her brain that tells her not to push it.)

So she lets him wrap his arms around her waist and prop her to sit upright against the cushions, and bows her head when he presents the shirt to her, so he can fit her head through the hole and poke her arms through the sleeves like she’s a small child. This is rather embarrassing, she thinks to herself. The one time she took off her shirt just for him, and he forces her to put it back on. She doesn’t think she’s ever had to deal with _that_ problem before.

She must look a bit chagrined as well, because after he’s done straightening her shirt he glances up to her eyes and his expression softens. He leans in and kisses her, a soft touch. “In the morning,” he says again.

“Promise?” Her voice sounds delicate, like glass.

He smiles, but it’s strained and falls flat quickly. “If you still want me then.”

Clarke almost scoffs. As if the alternative is an option. As if it’s _ever_ been an option.

But she doesn’t say anything; she just falls back into the cushions with a tired sigh, and pats the space beside her in invitation. He hesitates, but in the end he lies down behind her on the wide couch, arms sneaking around her middle to pull her close. She snuggles against him drowsily.

They fall asleep like that.

—

It’s late in the morning, and Bellamy is making pancakes.

He found the batter mix in a plastic, sealed ziplock bag in one of the cupboards, and he’s added some of the berries that they collected yesterday to it. Hopefully they’ll taste like something.

“Ba-ba,” Junior chatters behind him from where he’s toddling around the kitchen. Bellamy glances down to smile down fondly at the boy. He only started walking yesterday and he’s already practically jogging around the room.

“Yeah, I’m making food,” he tells Junior. “So quit it.”

Junior, it goes without saying, doesn’t quit it. He continues tugging on Bellamy’s ankle.

“Car,” Junior says. Bellamy knows it’s his way of asking him to play.

“Go play with mom— Clarke,” he corrects himself quickly, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks even though nobody is there to witness his verbal blunder.

Jesus, talk about a Freudian slip. He’s beyond pathetic at this point. _When_ will he get it through his head that Clarke doesn’t want their relationship to go that way?

Well, last night certainly didn’t help that. Not the way she kissed him, or how she grinded against him. Or the way she tugged her blouse off, revealing perfect tits straining against thin pink fabric. He’d found it exceedingly difficult to tear his eyes away.

He suddenly realized the pancake in the pan is smoking slightly and quickly picks the pan up by the handle, sliding the cake into a ceramic plate.

She was drunk, he tells himself. _Drunk_. She’d downed more wine than Bellamy, and wine that had been aged for… well, he wasn’t actually sure how long. But the fact was, she wasn’t in her right mind. She doesn’t want him like that. And he knows she’s going to wake up today, slightly hungover, and regret it. Because that’s what she does. It’s kind of why he’s making this breakfast, actually. A silent apology, and maybe this surprise will dispel some of the awkwardness.

He rummages in the cupboard above the woodstove, looking for the pancake syrup he knows he’s seen. When he turns around Clarke is standing in the doorway, wearing the same blouse and jeans from the night before and hugging herself around her middle. Her expression is unreadable. She looks rumpled and gorgeous in the filtered sunlight, and Bellamy feels his mouth go dry a little bit.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, so he finally clears his throat and tells her, “I made breakfast.” He holds out the plate redundantly.

She glances down at the plate, and then her gaze flickers over his body, cataloguing his appearance. And then her eyes go back up at his face, and for one moment he almost thinks she’s going to say it, that she’s going to open her arms and say, _It’s morning, and I still want you_. And his heart leaps, because his heart is the stupidest thing about him. And then when she finally speaks it falls somewhere into the depths of his ribcage.

“Bellamy…”

He sighs and turns away to flip the other pancake on the stove. He knows that tone of voice far too well. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

She ignores him, saying to his back, “I’m sorry about last night.”

His fingers tighten on the spatula. He closes his eyes. “That’s okay. I figured.” He hopes he sounds casual, because he knows his expression isn’t. He takes a deep breath, and then he turns around, pan in hand. “Want one?”

She’s still hugging herself, standing in the middle of the kitchen. But her brow is furrowed, and she’s searching his eyes like she’s looking for an answer, but he doesn’t have one for her.

It’s a sticky moment, but the atmosphere is shattered when they hear barking outside.

They immediately are both tense for different reasons; Bellamy puts the pan back on the stovetop and Clarke’s head whips towards the sound.

It’s… unheard of to hear sounds around the mansion’s immediate vicinity. They see animals, of course. Birds, yes. The occasional deer, raccoons, once even a mountain lion.

But dogs… with dogs come _humans_. And that isn’t good for them.

“Mama,” Junior complains from the floor, oblivious to the tension. Without really looking Clarke scoops him up from the floor.

She turns to Bellamy, and he knows what she’s thinking with just the glance that passes between them. With unspoken agreement, they make their way to the living room, silent out of habit.

They peer through the window, and _there—_ Bellamy sees them. On the other side of the highway, the boundary between their safe haven and the rest of the world— there are a group of three Grounders, warriors by the looks of the weapons, and a dog, a vicious looking mixed breed, straining on a leash. As Bellamy and Clarke watch in wait, one of the Grounders holds out his hand, and the dog puts his nose against the palm.

He’s sniffing them out, Bellamy realizes.

Clarke comes to the same conclusion. “Oh, god, they’ve found us,” she breathes. She glances at him. “Junior’s people.”

He looks again and sees that the Grounder holding whatever’s in his hand out to the dog also has a large, dark beard, tattoos that remind him of scythes, and bushy eyebrows. It’s the guy in the picture, in Junior’s locket.

He looks back at Clarke, and she’s pursing her lips. “We have to be sure this time,” she tells him. Any lingering awkwardness between them is shoved to the side, because now they have something else to do. “I’m not sending Junior to his death again.”

“I hear you,” Bellamy replies, idly wondering if the Grounders will cross the boundary. They haven’t worked up the guts just yet, it looks like. Maybe they’re not fully convinced anyone’s there. “We need a plan.”

—

The plan goes like this:

Bellamy follows him. The bearded grounder, that is.

Over their time on Earth, they’ve had to learn how to be stealthy. And maybe they’re not as good as the best Grounders, but they’re decent at it. Decent enough that someone who doesn’t guess he’s being followed— honestly, why would he?— doesn’t realize they’re there.

Clarke stays with Junior in the house, and Bellamy is the one to venture out, no time to shower but to just smear mud on his skin to get rid of any vestige of Junior’s scent, and then he sets off, following from a distance.

The Grounders meander around the whole property, circling it wearily, and Bellamy’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, but they’re muttering suspiciously. And he does hear one name— Rya, said in reference to the bearded grounder. One of the Grounders puts a placating hand on Rya’s shoulder, but he shakes it off. And then, apparently giving up, they head back into the forest.

Bellamy follows them to their village. It’s not far from the cliffside where he and Clarke found Junior.

Upon their arrival, Rya and his friends are greeted warmly by others; men, women and children alike. The Grounders don’t have a coalition anymore, but their loyalty to the small, close-knit villages stays the same, apparently.

Once he sees where they sleep at night, Bellamy slinks back into the forest and back home.

It’s past midnight when he gets back, and Clarke engulfs him in a hug as soon as he steps through the door even though he’s covered in mud and dirt and he reeks. Junior’s fast asleep on the couch, surrounded by his plastic toys.

“I was so worried,” she cries, and he’s startled to see tears in her eyes. “You were gone so long I thought— I thought—” He hates seeing her so distressed.

He runs a finger down her cheek in reassurance. It leaves a streak of dirt, and he frowns, licks his finger, and rubs at the spot. She leans into his hand, clutching onto his jacket front. When he’s satisfied the dirt is gone, he tells her grimly, “Their village is kind of farther away than I thought. But now we know where to find him.”

Clarke follows him to the kitchen when he goes to get a glass of water, standing behind him with her arms folded. “So… It’s really him. We found his father.”

Bellamy leans against the island, bracing his forearms against the marble counter. His head bows at her words but she can still see his stony expression under the curls that fall over his face. “I know.”

Neither feel jubilant.

—

Rya’s schedule consists of searching of all day and then, when night falls, he goes to a tavern.

There aren’t many safe places out there, that welcome anyone in with open arms, but apparently even in anarchy the Grounders can temporarily unite in this greasy-looking wooden building lit up from inside like a jack o’lantern to go have a drink.

One night, Rya is leaving the tavern— it’s late, fairly dark, and he’s alone. The wooden door swings heavily shut behind him, dimming the noise of raucous laughter and music within. He drags a hand over his beard and sighs, and then begins his usual journey back to the village.

But then he hears a sound in the bushes to his left, and even in a slightly drunken state he’s attuned to his surroundings and he freezes, one hand automatically ghosting to the knife strapped to his hip. He creeps up on the place where he heard the sound, stealthy and smooth.

Rya sees his two friends who have been helping him search, lying unconscious in the bushes. They’ve been stripped of their armor and cloaks.

His eyes affixed to his unconscious friends, he doesn’t even notice the club that swings heavily at the back of his head.

—

Clarke is pacing in the cave.

“Stop pacing,” Bellamy tells her gruffly. “When he wakes up, we have to put up a united front.”

“I don’t like this,” she whispers, anxiously tugging at the Grounder mask over her face. Bellamy insisted she wear the mask that one of Rya’s friends was wearing, since her hair and eye colour are most easily recognizable. They’re dressed head to toe in Grounder clothing, and Bellamy’s face is shrouded by the hood of a cloak and material wrapped around the lower part of his face.

“I know,” he replies. “Just stick to the plan.”

Rya chooses that moment to stir and, upon hearing Bellamy’s voice, jerk awake.

Clarke backs up a little behind Bellamy, watching Rya strain against the ropes they’ve tied him with. He’s already spitting at them, speaking in Trigedasleng.

Bellamy glances at her; they both know she’s better at the language, and more likely to come off as a native speaker.

She steps forward. “Stop struggling,” she commands him. Naturally, this does nothing. “We have something of yours.”

Rya lunges forward, but his restraints cause him to flop forward onto his stomach. Bellamy is on him like a flash, wrenching him up roughly by the hair onto his knees and pressing his blade against his throat. Bellamy glances at Clarke.

Clarke takes the hint. “I said stop struggling,” she says.

Rya’s eyes dart between Bellamy and Clarke feverishly for four or five seconds before he finally speaks coherently. “What do you want?” he spits.

Clarke doesn’t waste any time; she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the locket. “Does this—”

Rya lunges forward again, almost instinctively, and Bellamy yanks him back, this time pressing the blade harder against the throat. Clarke sees blood beading there. “That’s Xander’s,” Rya yells at them. He sounds crazy. “Where did you get that?”

Clarke glances at Bellamy. He nods, so she turns back. “Is Xander your son?”

Rya glares at her with an expression of utmost loathing. Clarke sighs. They don’t have time for this; Rya’s yelling alone has drawn far too much attention for her liking.

She turns away, walking towards the corner of the cave. And when she picks up Junior’s sleeping form from where he’s been lying, Rya surges forward again.

Bellamy sighs— it sounds angry— and whacks the man on the head with the handle of the blade, dazing him enough to pull him back. Then he glares at Clarke, like, _tell him_.

“Do that one more time and my friend will kill you,” Clarke says blandly, adjusting her hold on Junior in her arms. “So, this is your son? Xander?”

Rya shakes with barely restrained rage. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” Clarke says.

His face contorts. “Lies!”

He’s right, in a way. Clarke and Bellamy didn’t do _nothing_ to Ju— Xander. They fed him. They clothed him, they bathed him. They played with him. They… they _loved_ him. Clarke finds herself blinking back tears and is glad, suddenly, that Bellamy forced her to wear the mask. She waits until she trusts herself to speak steadily before she says, “Believe us or not, we want to return him to his family.”

“What did you do to Polina,” Rya bites out.

“Nothing,” Clarke answers. “She was already dead.”

“What did you do to my _brother_?”

Now Clarke hesitates, and can’t help her glance at Bellamy. Because if his brother is who they think he is, well, they’re not entirely innocent in this respect. This is enough indication for Rya.

“You killed him.” He bares his teeth at Clarke. “I’m going to kill you.” Bellamy tenses and presses the blade deeper into the skin of Rya’s throat, but he doesn’t pay it any heed, eyes fixated on Clarke.

Clarke says, weakly, “He was going to kill your son.”

Bellamy makes an impatient scoffing sound, and Clarke knows what it means. _You really think he’d believe that_?

Rya is looking more agitated by the second, so Clarke nods at Bellamy. They’ve confirmed what they wanted to confirm. And up close, she can see the way the man’s eyes stay riveted on his son in Clarke’s arms. It’s a wild, desperate look, and relief mixed in, all at once.

It reminds her of how her mom used to look at her after a long time apart.

Junior— Xander— stirs in her arms, and Clarke pats his back softly as she reaches down to untie Rya’s feet. As expected, he kicks up at her immediately, but the rest of his body is still tied, and Clarke is easily able to dodge his assault

Xander blinks sleepily in her arms, turning his head until his gaze can fix on his father. Their eyes connect, and Clarke notes the curiosity in Xander’s eyes. She wonders if he’d even recognize his father. Babies don’t have the best memories.

Bellamy shoves Rya forward from behind, sword still pressed to the side of his neck.

“Start walking,” Clarke commands him. “And both of you get out of here alive.” It’s an empty threat, of course, but Rya doesn’t know that. She and Bellamy are just trying to get out of here without being killed.

(An old adage from the Ark crosses her mind at that moment: _No good deed goes unpunished_. Clarke almost laughs, because it’s painfully true down here.)

Stiffly, Rya obliges; or rather, he’s pushed roughly by Bellamy every few steps, sword pressed against his neck. And when they get to the mouth of the cave, Bellamy shoves him forward rather violently, sending the man forward a few harried steps before he sprawls, hands and body and upper legs still tied, on the forest floor.

Clarke finally extricates Xander from her shoulder. “Okay, honey,” she says to him, finding her voice sounding a little less steady than she would like, “It’s time for you to go home now.” Xander doesn’t seem to want to let go of her hair; he’s clutching onto the fabric of her Grounder gear as if his life depends on it.

“Mama,” he cries out.

Bellamy reaches forward, gently untangling those little hands from Clarke’s shoulders so that Clarke can set him down to the ground. Rya doesn’t move, watching this exchange with an inscrutable expression.

“Okay,” Clarke says, crouching beside him, “go to your dad.”

Xander stares up at her, looking confused. Clarke realizes she’s still talking in Trigedasleng, and over the past month all he’s been subjected to is English. God, what a mess.

Clarke grabs him under the armpits and turns him around forcibly so that he faces his father. “Look, honey,” she whispers to his ear very quietly, in English. “Why don’t you walk over there to your daddy. Show him you can walk now. He’ll be so proud. So, so proud.” She strokes his hair soothingly; it’s grown so thick and long over the past month. “And you can talk now. You should walk over there and talk to your dad.”

The child doesn’t move for a long moment, still craning his neck to look over his shoulder at Bellamy and Clarke. Bellamy stays silent, but Clarke can tell his body is stiff; he’s restraining himself from speaking to Junior, to say any last words to him for fear of his accent leaching into it.

Clarke wants to tell him it’s okay, but she also doesn’t want to give Rya more of a window into who they are than they already have.

But then Bellamy crouches down anyway, and he puts a large hand on Xander’s back. And he gives him a very gentle push. A nudge, really. And that’s apparently all that the child needs.

He begins to walk, slowly, towards his father.

Rya draws in a sharp breath, eyes on his son walking towards him. And Clarke knows it’s going to be okay. Rya is probably halfway through his restraints right now, and it’s time to leave before things get messy.

But neither of them really want to.

Xander reaches his father, and then he loses balance and falls, right onto the man’s chest. Rya laughs, shakily. With relief. It’s like he doesn’t even see Clarke and Bellamy anymore.

And when he looks up a minute later, he _really_ doesn’t, because they’ve melted away into the shadows.

—

The double doors to the mansion are easier to open now, after a month of constant use. They swing open with a slight squeak; at the doorstep Clarke and Bellamy stand, staring into the darkness inside the house.

They shed their Grounder clothes as they walk, slowly. Clarke doesn’t feel any rush. She doesn’t feel anything, really.

She drops the mask to the ground, feeling cool air rush to hit her sweaty forehead, and tugs her scarf off her head. Bellamy does the same.

When they get to the living room, they’ve more or less gotten out of the heavy clothes. Clarke freezes in the doorway. The couch is still there, still wide, but now it looks less inviting and more formidable. There’s a book lying on the table, a big colourful one with large words on the cover. _Dumbo_. And there’s still a scattering of toys like a warzone across the carpet.

Her eyes stray farther, unable to tear themselves away. There’s a milk bottle on the coffee table, which has red and purple streaks on the glass. A box of crayons right next to it, with a few of the crayons worn to nubs.

Clarke takes just one step into the room. The feeling that she’s walking into a ghost town suddenly overpowers her. She sinks to her knees slowly, among the plastic toys, almost in a daze.

Bellamy’s book of Greek myths is on the couch, she notes dimly. She remembers him telling the story of Medusa to Juni— Xander— just a few days ago.

Xander. That’s his name.

It’s a testament to how little they knew about this little Grounder boy that they didn’t even know his name. They referred to him impersonally for over a month, and simply promised to care for him until they found his true home. And they _achieved_ that goal.

So why does it feel like she just lost something?

(Maybe because she did.)

She bites her lip to stop it from wobbling at the feeling of pain that blossoms from her chest and radiates out. And she’s so overcome by her own splintering that she’s surprised that Bellamy is the one who breaks first.

She hears him behind her, the shuddering, choked breath, and then he sinks to the ground beside her, a large hand over his face.

They have no one left. So she reaches for him, trying to give him support, to give him something other than her own pain.

His head is bowed, so when she wraps her arms around his neck he leans his forehead into her chest. She rests her chin on his head, lets him reach around her waist to pull her closer, and when he says, brokenly, “God, I miss him _already_ , Clarke,” that’s when she breaks as well. Because:

“Me too,” Clarke tells him between shallow breaths. “Me, too.”

—

They try to check in on Xander the very next day, only to find that the entire village has cleared out. Every last one of the twenty or so people who lived there have just up and left.

Xander is lost to them.

—

Life is muted after that, for a day or two. Maybe longer. Clarke’s lost track of time again.

Somehow, that finding of purpose, only to lose it again, is more painful than never having had it in the first place. Because now she remembers what it feels like, to live and breathe and think, _Tomorrow_.

She wishes she didn’t.

First they fed their drive to exist by paying homage to their people at the dropship. Then with Xander. Now…

Well.

—

She and Bellamy don’t talk a lot for the next little while. He spends a lot of time staring into space, and Clarke spends a lot of time, like she is now, sitting on the toilet seat in the bathroom, staring at the wall with tears leaking down her face.

God, she’s _tired_. So damn tired of losing people.

She reaches absentmindedly towards the toilet paper roll to rip off a strip to dab her cheeks, but it’s empty. She’s used them all. Funny; she could’ve sworn she just put a new one in a few hours ago. So she gets up and crouches to open the cabinet under the sink.

She grabs a new roll from the stack, but her hand is shaking— she can’t remember the last time she ate something, actually— and she knocks over a bunch of bottles. They fall out of the cabinet with an obnoxious clatter to the tiled floor.

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself. The word echoes around the bathroom as she tries to gather everything in her arms. She tries to shove it all back into the cabinet at once, but a few things fall out as she does.

That’s when something catches her eye on the floor.

It’s light pink, a narrow thing the size of a pencil but much wider and flatter. Curious, she picks it up and reads the label.

 _Pregnant_ , it says, with two dashes next to it. And right below it:

 _Not pregnant_. One dash.

She stares at the pregnancy test for a few moments, and then she thinks about how she felt accomplished that she could put a little baby to sleep every night; and then she thinks about the man downstairs, who had asked her something a very long time ago.

She stands up.

—

Bellamy’s in the kitchen, trying to make something to eat. He figures he should be useful, and a few minutes ago he distantly heard his own stomach rumbling, so making food sounds like something good.

Maybe Clarke will eat, too. Although he’s rarely seen her around the house since he broke down in her arms.

His hand tightens involuntarily on the soup mix packet, and he reminds himself to breathe.

(Not that his body needs the reminder. It just keeps treacherously breathing anyway.)

“Bellamy.”

He jumps a little at his own name being spoken; he’s gotten used to the sound of his own silence. He turns around and Clarke is standing in the doorway.

“Yeah,” he gets out. He wasn’t expecting her to come see him on her own. “Want soup? I’m making some.” He figures acting like nothing is wrong is the best way to navigate out of this. It’s their modus operandi, and he isn’t stopping that now.

She takes a few steps into the kitchen. Her fingers drum in a— nervous?-- pattern against the countertop. “What kind?”

“Chicken noodle.”

“Mmhm.” She’s not looking at him, he notices. He doubts Clarke even heard his answer. She is staring rather intensely down at the space in front of her own feet.

“Clarke?” he prods, tentatively.

She looks up then, at his searching expression. “My implant doesn’t work anymore,” she says, out of the blue.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“My birth control implant,” she elaborates. There’s maybe a faint flush to her cheeks, but Bellamy’s still scrambling to catch up. What…? “It’s been too long since it was last maintained. I started getting periods again.”

He finally manages to unstick the front of his throat from the back. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You told me a while back,” she replies in a rush, “that if I didn’t want you and I to be the only Sky people left on Earth, we didn’t have to be.”

“Yeah,” he tells her, a little bewildered. “If that’s what you wanted.” he studies her expression; she’s still a little closed off. “But it wasn’t, was it?”

Her voice is barely there, a whisper when she replies. “I think it was.”

He stares at her, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing. She’s not done.

“It still is.”

_— END PART ONE —_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #PlatonicSex and even more #CompletelyPlatonicFeelings and #GrounderFuckery is next guys, thanks for being patient and reading this WAY too long part one (it was supposed to be a 10k intro. Max. haha sorry). 
> 
> I'm working on the rest of this story as we speak. In the meantime, if you liked this please hit that kudos and do consider leaving a comment ?? You will instantly earn my eternal LOVE AND APPRECIATION if you do. <3 
> 
> okay anyways i look forward to talking to yall and thanks for reading.!!
> 
> @wellsjahasghost on tumblr :)


	2. somebody to lean on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think that’ll do it?” he asks casually.
> 
> “It should,” Clarke replies equally casually. “I don’t think it’s that hard to get pregnant.”
> 
> His lips twitch. She doesn’t say it as a joke, but it’s suddenly the funniest thing ever to him. “So I’ve heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I wrote this so much faster than I thought I would. @myself…. Chill.  
> Thanks to everyone who’s given me feedback on the last part, I really love you guys!! Also uh please notice that the rating is changed now, after _much_ debate. Now a bit more on the E side, for certain scenes.
> 
> Thank you AGAIN to my awesome friends MJ (@queenclarkegriffine) and Maggie (@redstringbanshee), who were so amazing in editing this and making me feel less nervous to post it. I’m so #blessed with these two, I swear.
> 
> Now, without further ado! I hope you enjoy.

The kitchen is silent save for the distant calls of crows from outside. Bellamy can’t help but stare at her like she’s just grown two heads from radiation.

“ _What_?” he finally manages.

Clarke wrings her hands together. “I said—”

He holds up a hand to stop her, now staring down at the marble countertop. “I heard what you said.” He’s just not sure he believes it. His heart is pounding loudly in his ears, so hard he almost doesn’t catch what she says next.

“Did… did you not mean it?” He looks up, and her expression is incredibly chagrined, shy in a way he rarely sees from her. “Look, never mind, I—” She makes to turn away, but he has just enough presence of mind to catch her wrist before she can take a step.

“No, I meant it. Every word.” She needs to know that he doesn’t take this lightly, not at all. But he still wonders. “What changed your mind?”

She takes a deep breath and turns around to face him, to let him see in her expression what she can’t say out loud without breaking down completely.

He tilts his head to examine the furrow of her eyebrows, the wetness glistening in her eyes. He understands. She doesn’t have to say anything at all, because he feels it too. He feels like someone has ripped one of his limbs off and the phantom pain just won’t stop. To communicate this to her, he rubs his thumb over the inner part of her wrist in reassurance before he lets go. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She sounds breathless.

“Clarke, I said I meant it. If you want a kid, I’ll give that to you.” He’d give anything to her, honestly. He’d rip his heart out of his chest and hand it to her if that’s what she asked for.

(He knows he might have already done that, though.)

“Do _you_ want that, though?”

He blinks. She elaborates.

“How— how do you feel about becoming a dad? A real one?”

Oh. He shoots her a self-deprecating smile. “ _I’m_ not the one who has to carry a child in my body for nine months.”

Clarke half-laughs but then resumes fidgeting with her fingers. “Okay, but you still kind of…” He thinks he sees a faint tint of red blooming on her cheeks. “... have a part in it.”

He doesn’t get the meaning of what she’s saying, and then when he thinks he does, he almost feels affronted that she thinks he _wouldn’t_ have a part in it. He grew up without his father, and he would never do that to a kid of his own. “Clarke, if we do this,” Bellamy tells her seriously. “I’m with you the entire way. We have a kid, we raise them together. I’m never just gonna up and leave. You have to know that.”

“I do,” she says quickly. Her reply is confident, almost dismissive; he realizes he’s misinterpreted the question.

“Then what do you…” He trails off, studying her expression. The way she’s biting her lip, and her cheeks are flaming red, and she keeps looking down and… “ _Oh_.”

He thinks he, too, might be blushing a bit right now. They stare at each other. It’s an awkward moment.

The thing is, Bellamy _loves_ Clarke. He’s at a point where he doesn’t even deny that to himself. Nor can he deny the attraction he’s felt towards her since almost the very start. But he knows how Clarke is about this kind of thing— hell, even he has his relationship hang-ups, to an extent. And if he has sex with her once— and he _knows_ this is a one time thing; it’s all business to her—, he’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to move on.

“Um,” Bellamy shakes his head vigorously and blatantly lies, “I mean— I don’t have a problem with that. Do you?” He asks her quickly.

“No,” she shoots back, equally fast.

A beat.

He swallows. “Okay.” He knows deep down that he’s getting into something he’s not ready for, but to hell with it.

“Okay,” she repeats, almost to herself. She nods, but Bellamy thinks she looks a little freaked out when she looks at him again.

He never wants her to feel that way, especially about him, so he shrugs, going for casual. Like it’s not a big deal either way for him. He puts her plate of pancakes on the table and turns back to the stove, throwing over his shoulder, “Whenever you’re ready.”

—

Things are a little bit weird for the next day or two.

It’s startling how quickly they go from being confident in the little ways they touch each other, to not touching each other at all. It’s _awkward_ , Bellamy thinks, wincing a little when the next day they’re out foraging and her fingers brush his while they’re reaching for berries to pick. She retracts her hand like she’s been burned and doesn’t look him in the eye for a good hour.

He doesn’t really know how to make it better; after all, he’d put the control in her hands. It’s up to her now, whenever she wants it. Not that it’s a chore to him. It _should_ be, but he knows it won’t be, because Bellamy Blake has feelings and they always get in the fucking way.

So, _whenever you’re ready_ it is for the next three days.

—

Clarke being _ready_ apparently entails her barging in on him in the shower.

He’s standing under the spray, rinsing his hair and wondering idly whether he left the stove on downstairs, when the plastic curtain suddenly rips back and he hears her voice ring out loud and clear. “I’m ready now.”

He jumps, startled, and whips his head around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. She’s standing by the tub, holding the curtain back with one hand. The other hand is resting on her bare hip. As soon as that registers, he realizes:

 _Shit…_ she’s naked.

He immediately closes his eyes before they can start travelling down her body and when he opens them again, he keeps them trained solely on her face. She looks a little amused at this action, and that’s when he realizes that she really isn’t doing him the same courtesy. Her eyes are looking him up and down and all he can do is stand there frozen because he hasn’t quite gotten over his shock.

She raises her eyebrows at him after a moment of silence where the only thing he can hear is the showerhead pouring down on his back. “It’s not like we haven’t seen each other naked before, Bellamy.” She raises a leg to step into the tub with him, and he involuntarily takes a step back from her. “I thought you said I didn’t have anything you haven’t seen before.”

He scrubs a hand vigorously down his face and lets out a choked laugh. “There’s a _slightly_ different context here, Clarke.”

She closes the shower curtain behind her, but he still can’t look at her. When she speaks, though, she sounds uncertain again. “Are you… okay with this?”

He opens his eyes to see vulnerability flit over her expression. And immediately, the awkwardness seems to dissipate. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over her upper arm, where droplets of water from the spray are beginning to bead her skin. “I said whenever you were ready and I meant it.” He can’t help but smirk a little. “I just didn’t expect you to take it so literally.”

Clarke is definitely blushing now, and he can see the red bloom over her cheeks and her neck, and travel down to her collarbone. He doesn’t look any further than that. She sighs. “Things have just been so weird. I want to get it over and done with.”

He pretends to himself that those words don’t hurt at all. “Okay.” His heart is pounding way too fast. This is _happening_. Right now. It’s something he’s thought about, but never actually thought would happen. He hasn’t felt this nervous since he was a teenager.

Sure, he hasn’t had sex in a _while_ , but this level of nerves is ridiculous.

She studies him in the meantime. Maybe she can hear how shallow his breaths are getting. “You ready?” Then she looks down to where he’s half-hard, and he’s about to reply but then she just— she _reaches out_ and curls her hand around him without any warning, and now— well— he can’t say anything at all.

He makes some incoherent sound in the back of his throat, though. Her fingers are soft, and she looks up at him as if searching for permission to keep going. All he can do is nod jerkily. Her strokes start off slow, but they’re firm, self-assured. She’s got a confident glint in her eye. The kind of glint he recognizes, because he sees it every time she has a plan and she’s determined to follow through. He’s always found it hot, and now that she’s jerking him off with that look on her face, he thinks this whole thing might end embarrassingly fast if she keeps at it.

That’s why after a minute he pushes her hand away shakily. “Clarke, enough.”

She lets him push her away without any fight. “Ready?” There’s a smirk on her face, and he loves it. But he kind of wants to wipe it off at the same time.

Yeah, he decides. If they’re only doing this once, he’s going to make it good.

So all at once, he grabs her around the waist with both hands and presses her against the shower wall, opposite from the direction of the spray. He holds her flush there with his entire body, and he feels rather than hears her breath catch in her chest when he does it.

He waits until she opens her eyes so that he’s looking right at her, noses just barely touching. He’s so close he can see how her eyelashes have become damp and clumped together a bit from the water. Once she’s looking at him he replies, “I think so.” He rolls his hips casually against her as he says this, not breaking eye contact.

Her hands flex from where they’re clutching to his shoulders. “Get on with it.” He thinks she’s going for bossy, but she sounds breathless. He stops himself from grinning and instead leans in to kiss her.

She quickly turns her head to the side, so his lips make contact with her cheek instead. He pauses, confused, and turns her head back to him. “Clarke?” Has she changed her mind? He wouldn’t blame her if she did.

She bites her lip again, automatically drawing his eyes back to her shapely mouth. He wants to bite that lower lip so badly. “No kissing,” she murmurs finally.

“What?”

She turns her head away again, studying the pattern on the shower curtain as if it’s fascinating. “Ground rules,” she explains. “No kissing.”

Right. He’d almost forgotten; this isn’t supposed to mean anything. And he knows this whole thing makes her vaguely uncomfortable, even if she won’t admit it; even if she hides it under bravado.

In the past, Bellamy’s never really been made to feel unconfident in his own body— quite the opposite, really— but he wishes fleetingly, in this moment, that Clarke would want him even if he wasn’t the last person on earth.

“Fine,” is what he says brusquely, but he’s not sure how to go about this without being allowed to kiss her, so he makes a little amendment. “No kissing on the lips.”

She nods immediately, looking relieved he just agreed to her stipulation, but he has a feeling she probably regrets that when he leans down to her throat and drops a kiss there. She doesn’t say anything, though. She doesn’t say anything while he presses his lips against her jaw, her ear, against the top of her breast. But he feels her shudder a bit with every kiss.

Maybe she doesn’t want _him_ specifically, but he knows how to make a woman feel good, and he’s planning to make that very clear.

When his hand slips down to her ass and a little farther down to tap the junction of her inner thigh— he’s got an agenda— she speaks again. “Look, Bellamy, just _do_ it.” She sounds shaky.

Now he’s just irritated. “I will, but if you’re not into it enough then it might be uncomfortable.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if searching for patience. Her hair is darkening around her shoulders from the water, waving slightly from the moisture. It’s a little mesmerizing to watch. “That’s not a problem.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re making this kind of difficult, Clarke.”

“Just do what you normally do,” she snaps. “It’s not that hard.”

He scoffs, almost insulted by this. “I don’t normally just go for it. There’s this thing called foreplay, you know.” There’s a thick layer of sarcasm blanketing his words but he can’t really help it.

She squeezes her eyes shut before she opens them again and actually looks him in the eye. “I’m _ready_. I told you that already.” As if to emphasize her point, she lifts her left leg, hitching it up onto his waist. She wraps her arms more securely around his shoulders, pressing her breasts against his chest, and— yep, that’s going straight to his dick.

He sighs shakily, bracing his forearms on either side of her head. He can’t believe how long they’ve been bickering over this in the shower. He feels his fingers starting to prune up, actually.

But he relents in the end, placing a hand under her thigh to brace it against his hip, and then he lines up with her entrance. She won’t catch his eye, looking somewhere over his shoulder, but she nods, indicating she’s ready.

He pushes in, slowly, and nearly groans at how slick and hot she is already. He has to lean his forehead against the shower wall next to Clarke’s head for a moment to get it together. When he finally lifts his head to look at her, she’s still staring hard over his shoulder, blushing hard.

“Clarke?” he inquires, trying to sound normal. He fails. He sounds absolutely fucking wrecked.

She nods rapidly. “Keep going.”

He studies her a moment more, but she doesn’t look like she’s in pain or anything.

So he bends his head back down into the crook of her neck and begins to thrust slowly, breathing out with each push in. God, she feels so _good_. But he’s trying not to focus on that. He wants to make this last.

Maybe it’s spite on his part, but he really wants her to _remember_ this.

The heel of her left leg digs into his lower back, and he takes it as indication to speed up a bit. With his face pressed against her throat and the side of her face, he can sense changes in her breathing quite well. So when he tries a new angle, he immediately detects how her breath hitches again. Interesting.

His hand on her thigh pulls her leg up, higher than it was, and he bends his legs slightly, searching for that sweet spot, all the while panting his breath into the column of her throat.

He knows he’s found it when she moans out loud and her head falls back to hit the tile. He feels nothing short of victorious when he hears her say his name in that voice, so high and sweet: “ _Bellamy_.”

 _Clarke_ , he mouths into her hair as he continues thrusting at that same angle, making sure to drive in at the same spot every time. Her moans come twisting out of her throat at regular intervals. He’s hanging onto the vestiges of his control, so he starts pushing a little harder, a little deeper, making her body push up the wall slightly with every thrust.

The mewling sounds she makes undo him, and he knows he’s not going to last much longer— he can hardly think straight at this point— so he reaches his free hand between them, rubbing his thumb against her.

She keens softly, lips close to his ear. He feels her walls fluttering against him as she climaxes, and _god_ if that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever experienced he doesn’t know what is— so he comes with a quiet groan muffled against her shoulder.

They don’t move for a good minute after; Clarke clutches onto him as if he’s a lifeline, and he hides his wrecked expression in her shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

As he comes down, he thinks his plan has actually backfired— in trying to make this something she’ll never forget, he doesn’t think this memory is actually ever going to leave the forefront of _his_ mind.

She drives him fucking insane.

It takes every ounce of his willpower to finally unhook her leg from around his back and pull out and step back — but then she slips, not ready to be on two feet, and he leans forward automatically to catch her round the waist.

“You okay?” he asks her softly, now feeling concern creep into his veins. God, he’s so stupid. He didn’t even ask, so overwhelmed with everything that he felt. “Did it— hurt a lot?”

She can’t meet his eyes and he thinks with horror that he’s actually misread everything and fucked this up incredibly bad. She murmurs, “I’m fine. It— didn’t hurt at all.”

Well, he has to wonder then why she looks like she’s hurting.

“We’re— we’re fine,” she says a little wildly when he continues searching her expression. “Seriously, Bellamy. _Seriously_ ,” she insists, and there it is, a hint of genuine.

He latches onto that for reassurance. “If you say so.”

She crosses and uncrosses her arms. “I do.” Now that they’ve had sex, he can’t help but let his eyes crawl over her body.

She’s just… so beautiful. In every way. She’s built from scars and soft skin, and it almost hurts to look because he knows he’s not allowed to want this. He’s not allowed to run his tongue between the valley of her breasts, run his hands up her waist, brush his lips against the fine hair on her arms, or intertwine his legs with her shorter, curvier ones. He shouldn’t even be thinking this right now.

He turns abruptly and shuts the water off. “Think that’ll do it?” he asks casually.

“It should,” Clarke replies equally casually. “I don’t think it’s that hard to get pregnant.”

His lips twitch. She doesn’t say it as a joke, but it’s suddenly the funniest thing ever to him. “So I’ve heard.”

They stare at each other, and then Clarke covers her mouth with her hand and bursts into giggles. And that’s when he decides they’ll be okay.

—

Clarke wakes up before Bellamy the next morning, which is unheard of. It’s very early; the sun is barely beginning to peek over the horizon. His arm is heavy, draped over her hip. She turns her head to the side to watch him, sleeping on his stomach with his head turned towards her in the pillows.

They sleep in this king-sized bed in the master bedroom together, but it’s such a huge bed that they can actually stretch out and take as much space as they want. Somehow, though, they always end up in the morning nestled together.

She props herself on her elbows, watching his eyelids flutter in sleep and debating whether she should wake him up— after all, it’s past the time he usually rises.

Just when she’s reaching out a hand, he murmurs something into the pillow, something she can’t decipher, except she catches at the end of it, “Octav…”

She retracts her hand. His brow is smooth; there’s no sweat making his hair cling to his forehead. This isn’t a nightmare. It’s… for once, it’s a good dream. He’s dreaming of his sister.

It makes her heart ache. She can’t wake him up from that kind of bliss.

On the other hand, the good dreams are the worst kind. She’s had some of her own, dreams where instead of hearing all the people she loves scream in pain, she hears them laugh; she talks to them, she gets to see their _faces_ again. But when she wakes up and realizes it’s a dream, it’s the most devastating feeling in the world.

Those dreams are a perfect kind of agony, and watching his lips curl into a peaceful smile in his sleep, she’s not sure it’s her right to take that away from him. So she slips out from under his arm and pads to the washroom.

She closes the door and catches the sight of herself in the full length mirror on the back of the door. Her hair is messy and wild, but her eyes look unusually bright. Her gaze travels down, and she catches sight of something just by the neckline of her nightgown. Frowning, she pulls the collar to the side and discovers a light bruise just in the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Immediately, she feels heat rising to her cheeks, and memories from yesterday afternoon come flooding back. _Shower_ sex— she’s still a little appalled at herself for that one. She knows gravity works more against you standing up than laying down, but she didn’t know when the courage to tell Bellamy she was ready would fade, and she wanted to take advantage of it before it did. Besides, by her count, she should be ovulating around this time, which _should_ have stacked the odds in her favor. Especially if she's still convincing herself she only wants to do this once.

Then her mind drifts back to Bellamy’s lips on her neck, his damp skin pressed hotly against hers, her leg hooked around his waist while he sank into her and she felt.... Well.

She hadn’t even expected to derive much pleasure from it, really. She’d actually have preferred it if she didn’t, because then she could tell herself that it was all business. But god, he knew what he was doing. And it’s very hard for her to deny that she didn’t like it. A lot. Hell, even before she got in the shower, just thinking about it, she’d been getting so turned on that her panties were drenched before she finally kicked them off.

She rubs a hand over her stomach absentmindedly. She doesn’t feel much different, asides from a slight, pleasant kind of ache between her legs— she hasn’t had sex in a long time— and it occurs to her that it might not even _work_ the first time. Frankly it was a bit stupid of her not to consider that possibility in the first place. She and Bellamy might have to try a few more times.

Just to make sure she gets pregnant. That’s it. Nothing to do with how good he felt inside her, or the way his large hands travelled up and down her body firmly as if molding the shape of her, or the look in his eyes, so dark and heavy...

Clarke turns abruptly towards the sink to splash some cold water on her face. No, she’s not doing this right now. Not with him lying asleep in the other room, dreaming about his sister. Not when he’s going to wake up elated and then, when he remembers she’s gone, have his whole world comes crashing down again, leaving him more broken than before.

She needs to be there for him.

—

She goes down to the kitchen and makes breakfast.

She doesn’t do it as often as Bellamy, but she knows how to cook. She’s just not as good at it. So her oatmeal is a little lumpy, even when she adds more water. She adds some of the blueberries and nuts she’d foraged the day before, a good scoop of sugar, and hopes it’s good enough.

She’s prodding at it with a wooden spoon when she hears a yawn behind her. She turns, and he’s standing in the doorway in the grey sweats and dark green cotton tee he sleeps in. Despite the extra hour of sleep, he looks more tired than ever; his eyes are red-rimmed and his face is haggard looking. He blinks a little when he sees her standing next to the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand.

She wonders how bad it was for him when he woke up.

Her throat tightens, and she turns back to scoop some of the oatmeal into a bowl, hoping it’s at the least edible and then hands it to him with a spoon. He stares down at it wordlessly, and she prods sternly, “Eat.”

A glimmer of a smile passes over his lips, and he takes a bite. “You made oatmeal?” His voice sounds hoarse, as if he’s been screaming. She would’ve heard, though.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, leaning against the stove. She watches him chew, and suddenly feels anxious. “I know it’s not the best,” she says, biting her lip. “But I think it’s less lumpy than usual, right? And—”

He interrupts her softly. “It’s great, Clarke.” He turns his head and meets her gaze to allow her to see the sincerity in his eyes. “The berries were a nice touch.”

She exhales, offering him a smile. “Good. I thought you might like that.” She turns back to scoop her own helping into a bowl. The silence is still morose, and she can almost hear the self-loathing pour off of him behind her. She can’t stand it.

“I just thought,” she goes on, trying to fill the emptiness with _something_ , even if it’s her own meaningless talk, “I could try making a warm breakfast, since we hardly ever have…” Her voice dies away when she hears him place his bowl on the counter and the next second, his strong arms are sliding around her waist from behind.

He rests his chin atop her head, and she leans back into him, enjoying the heat his body radiates and the firmness of his arms around her body.

She feels him press his lips against the top of her head, a soft, barely there touch. “Thank you,” he breathes, and she knows he’s not thanking her for her crappy oatmeal. No; she hasn’t been subtle at all with this gesture. He knows that she’s trying to distract him, making him feel better.

Clarke doesn’t reply, but she places her arms atop his where they rest around her waist, letting her head fall back against his shoulder; they sway slightly in place like that for a good minute. In this moment, she finds herself incredibly grateful that sex didn’t change _this—_ it didn’t change what they already had, this friendship and this support. She knows what his skin feels like against her without these layers of clothes between them, and it doesn’t matter. Not for this. She doesn’t even want to move out of his arms, and it seems neither does he. At least, until the oatmeal starts smoking and she realizes belatedly that the bottom of the pot is burning.

She jerks out of his arms— regretfully— to stir the pot hastily. She hears Bellamy chuckle lowly behind her, and then he’s leaning down and pressing a kiss to her ear. “Sorry.”

The pot is blackened at the bottom but she can’t find it in herself to really care. “ _You’re_ washing it, so don’t be.”

He scoffs, and she thinks maybe she succeeded in what she was trying to do.

—

It’s a few days later when she finally decides it’s the right time to bring it up again.

His mood has been subdued lately, but today he’s about as back to normal as either of them could ever be.

“So, I was thinking,” Clarke says, that afternoon while they’re wading with their pant legs rolled up to their calves in the shallow, fast-moving water of a stream. They’re trying to catch a few fish for dinner, but so far haven’t had much success.

His eyes are fixed on the water below, his spear raised above his head. He inclines his head slightly towards her, though, to indicate that he’s listening.

“We should probably have sex again,” she continues, unfortunately at the same time that his spear comes down, and he blinks and swears because he misses the fish he was aiming for.

He swears and turns towards her. “A little warning would be nice.” He doesn’t sound irritated, just a little dry.

Clarke shrugs apologetically. She’s already decided at this point that bluntness is the best way to go here. Get the awkwardness out of the way so she can get pregnant and they can both move on from this very strange part of their life together. “I’m just saying, we should make sure I’m pregnant before we… stop.” That last word sounds not very good in her mouth. She mentally attempts to pull herself together. God, she’s had just _one_ taste of him and she can’t even fathom wanting to stop at this point.

She watches his Adam’s apple bob as he considers her words with his head bent towards the water. He shifts his spear from hand to hand a few times before he replies, almost affably, “Yeah. Sure.”

She nods and watches him fail to spear another fish. She glances down to the water, where she can see the fish swimming fast, and grips her own spear a little harder. So far, both of them have failed— catching the fish this way is actually much harder than it looks.

She’s about to have another go at it when she hears him say, “Clarke, I found dinner.”

She looks up to see him slowly reaching for the dagger strapped to his hip. And then she follows his gaze, spotting the duck that’s currently waddling up the opposite shore.

“Know how to cook duck, Clarke?” he asks, adjusting his grip on the handle. He sounds gleeful.

“No,” Clarke says with a small self-deprecating laugh. She can hardly cook fish. Or oatmeal, for that matter.

“We’re gonna learn tonight.” He draws his arm back, brow furrowed. Clarke’s content to watch him do this— he goes very still, and his sharp eyes narrow as he focuses on his target. He’s very good at it and he’s fascinating to watch when he does this. But then she notices something else.

He draws a deep breath, and she sees his fingers tense on the handle.

“Bellamy, don’t,” she tells him sharply. He lowers the dagger, thrown out of balance, and gives her an exasperated look. All she can do is point.

Out of the bushes, where neither of them had seen before, a few white ducklings are waddling into sight, in a line trailing behind their mother. As they watch, the mother duck turns her head and squawks loudly at the ducklings, as if telling them to hurry up. At the sound, the smaller ones move a little faster.

Bellamy glances at Clarke, searching her expression. She knows this is so sappy of her, but right now she can’t bear the thought of taking a mother away from her children, even if they’re just ducks. He purses his lips a moment and nods at her. She exhales, glad he understands. Simultaneously, they both lower their heads back to the water. Fish tonight it is.

Clarke jabs her spear into the water, and she feels triumph flow through her veins when she realizes she’s actually got a small fish at the end of it, wriggling in an attempt to escape. “Look!” she yells in jubilation, so surprised by her catch she actually hops a few times on the spot. “I caught one!”

He looks up, and a grin splits across his face at her antics. “It’s a start.”

—

She realizes later she never really specified when they should have sex again. And it’s strange, because this seems like something that should be scheduled. To make it feel more like business and less like Clarke’s just eager to get her hands on him again. Which is true as well, but she’s firmly trying to squelch that urge of hers. She’s not going to complicate her relationship with Bellamy. What they have, an easy partnership, is the only thing she’s ever needed from him and she prefers to keep it that way, especially now.

She’s not keen on interrupting his shower again— even that bold move was something she had hardly been able to work up the courage to do. Things had just been awkward between them and she’d wanted to get it all over with.

(Now she thinks she just wanted to get it _started_.)

And it’s not fair to him, anyway, to keep springing it on him that way. So what other way is she supposed to tell him she’s ready again?

She contemplates this in the master bedroom while looking for something to wear after her shower. She normally skips all the fancy clothes and shoves them all to the side in order to choose something from the various practical shirts and pants in that section of the closet, but today something else catches her eye: a low cut red tank top. The colour pops out to her, and automatically she reaches out a hand to feel the soft, stretchy material in her fingers. It’s pretty, so she tugs it down from the hanger and throws it on over her bra.

It’s a good two sizes too small, she thinks to herself with disappointment. Definitely not something she can wear practical purposes. Her cleavage is practically pouring out of it— it’s not something she’d wear for foraging, rather an outfit she’d wear to a party, if she was trying to get laid or something…

She runs a finger over the thin strap, a devious idea forming in her mind.

Clarke digs through the closet, absentmindedly sweeping her damp and drying hair to the side as she looks for something else. At the end of her search, she’s wearing this sleeveless tank and the black skirt she found at the back of the closet and had mistaken for a thin strip of cloth before she unfolded it and realized it was just a _really_ short skirt. Like, so short that when she twists her hips experimentally in the mirror, the material of it floats up and she gets a glimpse of her own blue panties.

Just for kicks, and because she’s got this very shallow feeling of… _pretty_ , for the first time in a long time, she goes to the drawer looking for other accessories. Her heart does a funny little swoop when she pushes her fingers through the jewelery and sees a simple ring, with three small diamonds, nestled among the others. She pulls it out, thinking that somehow it reminds her a bit of her mother’s wedding ring.

She pushes the thought out of her mind immediately and tosses the ring to the side, lifting up some of the other jewelery. It’s all breathtaking. ALIE must have spent a lot of time collecting all these amazing things.

She finds a make-up kit and, feeling young and happy and giddy, applies some lip gloss. And mascara— oh, how she’s missed using that to darken her lashes.

She fluffs her slightly damp hair a little in the hand mirror and thinks to herself that if he doesn’t get the hint after this, she’s not sure if he ever would.

She finds him in the garage after a few minutes of searching, where he’s got the garage door opened up and he’s bent over the motorcycle, just outside in the sun.

The first thing she notices is, _oh_ he’s not wearing a shirt. It’s sweltering out, so she really couldn’t blame him, but all that gleaming brown skin of his back being on display feels like a personal attack. She’s rooted to the last stair, unable to move any further for the moment.

He hears her coming down the stairs to the garage and without turning his head, he says, “It just occurred to me this thing was probably solar-powered.”

“Okay,” she manages. His skin positively glows in the sunlight. He straightens up and turns around from where he was checking on the tire, running one large, veiny hand through his mop of curls. Her eyes get automatically draw to the suggestion of a V that his hips make into his dusty black cargo pants as he goes on.

“I thought it might be a good idea to charge it up in case we ever have to make a fast getaway. And the acceleration pedal looks like it’s jammed, so…” His eyes finally fix on her and his voice dies away.

When his eyes land on her, the first thing she feels is stupid. Because she just had so much fun playing dress-up, and here _he_ was, trying to work on an escape plan. She feels very much jolted back into reality; the reality that their lives are always a life-or-death situation. Why the hell did she spend so much time choosing which panties to wear under this ridiculous skirt?

She’s blushing, about to turn away, but then she sees the whole thing registering in his eyes, the way his gaze crawls up her body from her legs to her skirt to the fabric of her blouse hugging her breasts to her lips to her eyes and then— well, he just seems to be at a loss for words. And there’s a flush rising to his throat as well, that definitely wasn’t there before from the sun.

“You’re wearing a skirt,” he says, in a strangled tone of voice, and Clarke immediately knows her choice of wardrobe has had the intended effect.

She smiles at him flirtatiously. “Yeah. I haven’t worn one in a long time. Like it?”

His jaw works a few times, and he drags his gaze back to her eyes as if considering her, the way she’s swaying from side to side, hands behind her back to push her chest out, the smirk on her glossed lips. “I’ve never seen you in a skirt,” is what he says, voice deeper than usual. Then he points somewhere behind her. “Can you pass me the toolbox?”

She twirls on the spot, feeling satisfied at the sharp intake of breath she hears, and spots the dark blue toolbox on the ground next to the sports car.

She can just tell his eyes are glued to her ass, so she does the most logical thing for someone trying to seduce Bellamy Blake— she bends at the waist, taking an extra moment to let her fingers wrap around the handle of the toolbox before picking it up. She’s a little disappointed that he makes no sound when she does this.

The moment she straightens up, however, she feels his hands on her waist, wrenching her back. And— _oh_ , he’s right behind her, pulling her flush against him.

She gasps involuntarily, and she’s so turned on already that it comes out as a breathy moan.

His hands tighten around her waist. “I knew it,” he mutters against the back of her neck.

In response, she rolls her hips back against him.

His head drops to her shoulder. “You don’t play fair.” He says this as if in an awed sort of way, but his voice is raspy.

As if _he_ does, Clarke thinks to herself. His choice of wardrobe— or lack thereof— is the complete reason why her panties are soaking wet right now, and it wasn’t even intentional on his part. It’s really not fair at _all_.

All thoughts of fair play vanish from her mind in the next moment, when he grinds back into her, and she drops the toolbox on the ground.

In a flash, he has her on her back on the work bench built into the wall, and Clarke dimly hears things crashing down from the shelf as her body shoves them out of the way. She can’t really bring herself to care, not when he’s leaned over her with his mouth latched onto her nipple through the thin fabric of her tank top.

“Bellamy,” she whines, voice ridiculously high pitched. He groans against her breast and she can’t help but grab a fistful of the curls at the back of his head. Her other hand scrambles for purchase on the metal bench, scattering tools in its wake.

He curses, and tugs at her shirt. She lifts herself up, letting him pull the tank top off roughly and throw it on the floor with everything else. He drinks in the sight of her lacy bra like he’s starving. Impatiently, Clarke ruts against him again. He blinks, startled, and one of his hands slides up her skirt to her thigh, tugging at the waistband of her underwear.

When he peels down the cup of her bra to put his mouth back on her breast, Clarke involuntarily rises up, but one of her elbows ends up hitting something very solid and fixed to the metal, right on her funny bone. She hisses from the pain and discomfort, and Bellamy is instantly there, still standing between her legs but instead of tending to her immediate needs he’s cradling her arm in his hand. “What happened?”

“I just hit my elbow,” she grits out. “It’s okay. Keep going.” But it’s too late— his eyes travel to where she hit her elbow, and then they widen.

“Shit.” He pulls Clarke off the work shelf and onto her feet. A little put off, she pulls her bra strap back up her shoulder. “Clarke. Look.”

She turns her head, and focuses her eyes on what she hit.

It’s a little box of glass casing built into the wall. Inside it, there’s a large round button, about half the size of her palm. But it clearly reads in large white letters, SELF-DESTRUCT.

They stare at it for a long moment, silent and still as if it’s a predator staring at them, and Clarke comes to the same conclusion he does. Bellamy voices it first.

“This house is just one big fucking bomb, isn’t it.” He sounds disgusted. Clarke doesn’t blame him. She’s had just enough of bombs. Of all kinds.

“An A-bomb?” she asks in hushed tones.

He squints at the button and they both consider it. “Don’t think so. If there’s a button on the wall, it’s for someone to press.”

“Someone who would have to be able to get away in time,” Clarke murmurs, following his logic. “Great. So it’s just a normal bomb. Guess we can sleep easier now.”

His lips twitch upwards at her attempt at sarcasm.

There’s another moment of silence where Clarke just leans her head against his chest, his arm still around her bare waist, and watches him place his hand on the wall next to the button. When she gives him a confused look, he explains.

“I heard an echo when you hit it. Like it was…”

“Hollow?” she finishes, turning around in his arms to examine the wall for herself. The self-destruct button doesn’t seem so scary anymore in their curiosity.

Between the two of them searching the wall for hinges, they finally find the switch on the side of the wall, and a large square section of wall with the button in the middle of it swings open like a vault.

They peer inside tentatively, and Clarke is assaulted with the sight of—

“ _Guns_ ,” Bellamy says, delight colouring his voice.

She blinks. That’s right— there are rows and rows of guns, rifles, handguns, pistols, revolvers, and boxes and boxes of clips. The vault is about as deep as it is tall, and it’s full to the brim with firepower.

It’s like Christmas coming early for Bellamy, of course; he looks like a whole new world has opened up for him. He brushes past her to reach in with one long, muscled arm to pluck a handgun from a nearby rack.

Clarke isn’t nearly as crazy about guns, so all she does is watch as he loads the gun with a new clip and points it at a tree visible just outside the open garage door. He fires, abdominal muscles tensing as he does, and Clarke is so fascinated with this that she hardly sees the small tree shake a little with the force of being hit.

His giddy smile in response would be incredibly adorable if she weren’t overwhelmed with the urge to jump his bones. As he flicks the safety back on and puts the handgun down in favour of reaching for another, she feels a flicker of irritation. She’s actually jealous of a bunch of guns now. This is a new low.

They’re on a schedule, she tells herself. She’s trying to get pregnant here, after all.

So she grabs his hand before his fingers touch the revolver he’s reaching for. He turns his head to look at her, and she guides the hand she’s holding to her thigh. “Play with your new toys later,” she tells him sternly.

Instantly, his eyes darken and he licks his lip, turning away from the vault and taking a step into her space. “Sorry,” he rumbles, hand easily sliding up to her panties, where his fingers gently toy with the fabric for a moment before harshly tugging them down. Clarke feels them rip a little bit in the process, but she honestly couldn’t care less. They have a surplus of clothes right now anyway.

“God, you’re so wet,” he marvels. “You got this wet for me, Clarke?” he sounds almost in awe. “You put on this pretty little skirt trying to fucking _seduce_ me, is that it?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies breathlessly.

He grabs her round the waist and pushes her up against the hood of the sports car. “You _do_ fucking know,” he growls, face an inch away from her. His fingers are sliding around her heat, spreading her wetness around, and she’s so hot for them— she wants his fingers in her so bad— but no, she can’t do that, because then this whole thing turns into something she doesn’t want.

Since he’s sufficiently distracted from the guns, she pushes his hand away and hops up onto the hood, daintily pulling her panties off all the way. He watches her do this silently, jaw clenching.

Then she hitches her own skirt up and hooks her legs around his waist to draw him close, so close that she can press her core against the muscles of his lower stomach. This has exactly the intended effect— he tenses.

And a minute later she’s lying nearly horizontally on the hood, completely naked except for the skirt, and she’s got her legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks her, muttering into her ear.

“You knew exactly what this skirt was gonna do to me, didn’t you? That’s why you put it on. And that shirt, making your tits look amazing, you knew I wasn’t gonna be able to resist. And you’re soaking wet, just thinking about this weren’t you?” He bites her collarbone and she mewls. “Fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so beautiful.”

He’s good at dirty talk, and she finds she likes it. There’s an undercurrent beneath all that lust, though— almost like reverence, and it comes out in a big way in the last thing he utters. _You’re so beautiful_.

She clings onto his bicep with one hand and her climax comes hard, but his voice, low and adoring in her ear, is the thing that truly shakes her.

—

In an unspoken agreement, the sex becomes a regular thing, after that. Clarke still won’t let him kiss her, nor does he push any traditional foreplay onto the babymaking agenda, but he makes her come every time. She’s pretty sure he’s just trying to make a point of it.

She really doesn’t mind.

—

Two weeks later, Clarke gets her period and only feels the faintest glimmer of disappointment at the sight of the blood.

“It didn’t work,” she tells him blandly at dinner that night.

He pauses with his fork full of macaroni halfway to his mouth. “Meaning?”

“I got my period. I’m not pregnant. We have to keep trying.”

He nods sagely and bites on his macaroni. “Sounds like a plan.”

He doesn’t sound incredibly disappointed, either.

—

Bellamy is usually pretty good about the no kissing rule, but he slips up sometimes.

One morning Bellamy is stepping out of the bathroom in the master’s bedroom, towel around his waist and nothing else, and usually when he’s at this stage of the morning routine she’s still asleep. Today, however, he can see her watching him through bleary eyes.

He can’t help but spend an extra moment taking in her tousled form before he turns towards the closet to find something to wear. She looks so adorable when she wakes up in the morning. And beautiful. How is it possible for someone to be so beautiful the moment they wake up? “See something you like?”

He’s joking, of course, but while he’s reaching on the top shelf to grab a T-shirt, he hears the sheets rustle behind him, and a moment later he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a small hand on his bare back. He didn’t even hear her coming, so quiet as she was.

He turns around and she’s smirking, looking very awake now. “Something I’d like to touch, maybe,” she purrs, leaning in. Her voice is low, husky, and his throat feels dry suddenly. She’s always had an incredibly sexy voice, but the fact that he’s now heard that voice moan his name makes it ten times worse.

To distract himself, he shakes his head vigorously, letting droplets of water fly off his spiky hair and onto her. She squeaks in surprise, falling back instinctively. He grins at her reaction, and just as instinctively, he ducks his head and leans in to kiss her.

She’s not ready for it, so their lips meet. And for a moment, he’s kissing her sweetly and chastely, hands wrapping gently around her forearms.

The next moment, she pushes at his chest hard, and he remembers himself, pulling back with his eyes wide. “Clarke, I’m—”

She actually looks mad; her lips are drawn into a tight line and her eyebrows are furrowed. But her cheeks are flushed red and her eyes glitter with something other than anger. “I _told_ you not to kiss me.” Her voice is rough; he hates that she looks weary.

“Sorry,” he says, because he _is_. He didn’t mean to cross her boundary and he’s afraid it’s over now because of this mistake.

She watches him as he steps back, and her eyes flicker over his chest and arms, to the droplets of water that bead over his shoulders, and then back to his face. She bites her lip, and her gaze darkens. “You can make it up to me.”

Her voice is all throaty again, and of course, it goes straight to his groin. “Anything,” he agrees hoarsely.

She reaches forward and hooks two fingers on the knot that ties his towel to his waist. She reels him in that way, and he goes willingly, standing still in front of her.

She cups the back of his neck with one of her hands, and she turns her face to press against his throat. His hands automatically come around her waist.

“I want to have sex with you,” she says.

He nearly smiles. Clarke’s not good with subtlety these days. “Anything you want.”

“You won’t kiss me again.” She flicks her tongue against his skin, lapping up some of the water that’s pooled in his collarbone.

“You probably have morning breath anyway,” he manages to say, and she bites his skin in reprimand, pulling at it a bit before she starts tugging him backwards towards the bed.

She falls on her back on the mattress and he follows her, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of her head while she continues to mouth at his throat and the underside of his jaw. They’re not kisses, but they still drive him wild.

So instead he puts his mind to getting her clothes off, and she lifts her hips to let him drag her pajama pants off her legs and unbuttons her top by herself. She’s not wearing anything underneath, which gives him full rein to press his mouth to her breasts without any hindrances. Her breath hitches in regular intervals with his tongue, and he feels her hands tugging at his hair so he lets up and just starts kissing her. Not on the lips, of course, just _everywhere_ else. She doesn’t protest.

He leans over her on his elbows and presses his lips to each of her breasts, between them, lower on her stomach, turning his head to get at her hip, back up her side to her shoulders and collarbone, against the underside of her jaw, her cheeks, her nose— she closes her eyes involuntarily— so he touches his lips briefly against her fluttering eyelids, and then on each side of her mouth, not quite touching, not quite _there_. And then he waits for her to open her eyes again so he can make eye contact before he presses a kiss against her forehead, right near her hairline, gentle as can be.

If anything, her cheeks are more flushed than before and her eyes unnaturally bright. She looks shaken a little bit, and he feels a bit of smug satisfaction knowing he could do that without actually employing any of his usual tactics.

But she doesn’t say anything. Her mouth flattens out in a line, and then her legs scissor, flipping them over. Bellamy goes easily, knowing when to relinquish control. When she needs it, when he’s taken it away with a few well placed touches of his lips.

She rides him after, pushing him down whenever he tries to rise up, so he just watches her.

When she throws her head back, her hair sticking to her temples and her chest flushed prettily pink, he tries to tell her, “You’re beautiful,” but the hand she’s got on his shoulder moves up to his mouth, shushing him. Despite the fact that he’s almost overwhelmed by a frenzy of lust, he laughs a little against her fingers, because he knows she _knows_ what he was going to say and she didn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to hear that she’s beautiful.

He opens his lips and takes her fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them. She comes with a loud cry.

He talks her down through her orgasm, tells her she’s sexy instead, and she seems to like that better.

—

She gets her period again, and this time she finds herself feeling a bit down. They’ve been having sex practically every day; she’s _pretty_ sure this shouldn’t be happening.

Then again, she knows sometimes it takes longer to get pregnant. But that doesn’t stop the tears from springing to her eyes.

She tells him over morning tea while they’re planning out their day, with her hands wrapped hesitantly around the steaming mug, “Um, I got my period again.”

Bellamy glances up from the book he’s reading to look her in the eyes. There’s a pause, and then he asks quietly, “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says casually, and she _means_ it, she really does, so she’s not too sure why she has to fight so hard to stop tears from pricking at her eyes. “We’ll just keep trying.”

She thinks she’s being stoic enough for him to buy it. But then she catches sight of the plastic cup full of broken crayons still sitting on the kitchen table from months ago, and she pulls her chair out abruptly, the legs making a scratching sound against the tile, and excuses herself to go outside.

He follows her a few minutes later to find her in the front garden, where she’s sitting in the grass pulling out weeds like Xander used to do and biting back tears angrily. She hears him come up behind her and slowly place a hand on her shoulder.

“Clarke—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, jerking away from his touch, He immediately retracts his hand. And she immediately feels bad. He’s just trying to comfort her and she’s being a bitch. “Sorry,” she whispers at the ground. “I just wanna be alone right now.”

“It’s okay.” He’s silent for a moment. “Are you going foraging today?”

The sudden turnaround of topics surprises her enough to turn around and look at him. His expression is neutral, one eyebrow cocked as he waits for an answer.

“That was the plan,” she replies eventually. She likes finding fruit and vegetables out in the near edges of the forest; she doesn’t have to go far but it’s a hard task, and it keeps her mind occupied. She’s looking forward to it.

“Good.” he nods to himself and starts backing up, back towards the porch. “Get apples. A lot of them.”

“Why?” she calls with confusion, but he’s disappearing into the house.

He doesn’t reply to her question, but before he shuts the door he says, “Just get a lot. Fill the basket.” The door clicks shut behind him, and Clarke stares at the door feeling increasingly perplexed. Then it opens once more and Bellamy fishes his gun out of his thigh holster to toss to her. “Take that with you. And eyes sharp.” The revolver lands in the grass beside Clarke.

Now that sounds more like Bellamy. She makes sure he sees her roll her eyes at him before he disappears back in the house again.

—

She finds out what it’s all about when she comes home a few hours later from the late afternoon sun.

She’s dusty and dirty, but she’s got a full to the brim basket under her arm with assorted apples that she found. She’s pretty she’s picked the nearby trees clean. Although they’re mostly crabapples around here, they’re still tasty.

She finds him in the kitchen, where he’s got flour smudged on his nose and is flattening out pastry dough into a large circle with a rolling pin on the counter.

He smiles when she walks in, gestures for her to drop the basket on the table and tells her, “We’re making pie.”

It’s fun— he’s good at cooking, and she’s not, which is why she ends up getting bored and dipping her hand into flour to throw at him. And he turns and frowns at her from where he’s been mixing the fruit in with cinnamon and sugar and nuts and darts forward to rub his cheek against her face, smearing flour all over it. She shrieks, pushing him back, and he laughs, and she laughs.

They eat soup while the pie bakes in the oven. It’s not a very reliable oven, so the pie gets burnt a little; the pastry is tough and not very crispy at all, but the filling is absolutely fucking delicious and she actually _moans_ a little when she bites into it. His eyes darken a little when she does and she meets his gaze, unable to catch her breath suddenly.

They end up having sex. But first, somehow— she’s _really_ not sure how— she ends up blowing him on her knees while he leans against the tabletop with his hands in her hair and groaning low in his throat, sending shivers of heat through her.

She tells herself she’s just getting him ready, but if she’s honest he was ready the moment she put her mouth on him and now she’s just getting carried away. She’s immensely glad when he backs her up against the table and finishes inside of her, because that way she can pretend it was all business.

After they’ve cleaned up, they wash the dishes together. He soaps and rinses, she dries.

“You like the pie?” he asks her when they’re done that, too.

She pretends to consider. “The pastry could use some work.”

He swats her ass playfully with the dish towel; she can’t help the giggle that rises in her throat. And she suddenly really can’t recall why she started the day feeling sad.

She thinks that was definitely his goal.

—

He’s apologized for kissing her lips before, and she kind of feels bad about it— it’s not that it didn’t feel good; in fact that’s the problem, it felt _too_ good to have his lips on hers.

Which was precisely the reason she didn’t want him to do it. It forced her to re-examine feelings for him that she’d put away into a box that really didn’t need reopening.

But one day, while backing her towards the bed he does it again— subconsciously, she knows he doesn’t do it on purpose— and his lips are so very nearly touching hers before she manages to turn her face and they land on her cheek instead.

He looks at her with confusion until she says, “No kissing, remember?”

His confusion melts away and it’s replaced with fleeting irritation. “Right,” he says. “Almost forgot. Let’s just get to the fucking, then.”

His voice is almost a growl, and it sends a thrill down her spine.

She tries to shut down her expression, but he sees it, tilting his head curiously. Then understanding crosses his face.

“You want to be _fucked_ , don’t you?” he says, almost wonderingly, taking a step closer. “Properly.”

She can’t make her throat work quite right at the moment.

His expression is almost unreadable as he studies her, but then he seems to make a decision, nodding almost imperceptibly and then his glare is back, full force. “Take your clothes off, Clarke.”

She scrambles for control even while a jolt of warmth floods to her core at this command. “You too,” she counters, breathless.

He obliges, reaching behind him to tug his shirt off in one pull. Then he kicks off his jeans and boxers. Clarke unzips her dress and steps out of it. He waits til she gets it off, hovering right in front of her. As soon as she does, he grabs her roughly around the waist and before she can process it he _throws_ her on the bed. It’s not a far distance, but Clarke’s body still bounces on the mattress.

Startled, she looks up to see him towering over her. “On your stomach.”

She stares up at him, flushed and a little shocked.

It’s not that he’s ever acted unsure of himself in bed, but she’s always had the feeling he’s holding back somewhat. Like he’s a little shy. Clarke is usually the one to take control, and he follows her lead. But right now— he’s issuing commands, and there’s something dark in his eyes.

She likes it. Too fucking much.

When she doesn’t move, he tells her, “I thought you said you wanted to be fucked. Nothing else. Just sex, right? Making a baby.” His voice is rough, rubbing at her in all the right places. “So roll over.”

Clarke is getting more wet at every word, and suddenly she’s very intrigued as to where this might lead. So she flips onto her stomach, turning her head to the side. She feels the mattress dip as he crawls onto the bed.

Then he’s hovering over her, and she can feel him exuding warmth over her back and shoulders. Without warning he pulls her hair away from her face so he can drag his lips against the outer part of her ear. “You want this, Clarke?” He runs a finger down from her shoulder to her lower back, raising goosebumps. “You want me to fuck you like this?”

Her breath is coming faster. The promise in his voice thrills her.

Then he moves his face down and begins raking his teeth gently down the column of her spine. When he gets to the lower part of her back, he bites down gently on the skin just above her ass. “I didn’t hear your answer.”

“Yes.” Her voice sounds ridiculously high pitched.

He’s brisk now. “Get on your knees then.” It’s a command, confident.

Shaking, she gets on her hands and knees. Behind her, he wraps his hands around her thighs and spreads them apart further, letting loose a breath that fans hotly over the most sensitive part of her. “You’re dripping wet already. Jesus, I can’t believe this. Are you this wet just for me, Clarke?” He swipes his thumb teasingly against her, and she’s just frustrated now, shuddering with want and craning her head around to glare at him. “Stop wasting time.”

She can hardly see his irises. “I’ll take as much time as I want,” he snaps. “Get on your elbows and look at the headboard.”

She does. She shifts onto her forearms and waits, feeling him settle behind her. His hands find purchase on the tops of her thighs, dragging her body closer.

Then she feels him, heavy and thick and nudging at her entrance. She can’t see him, so she has to rely completely on the sensation, how he rubs himself against her folds. She can feel her own wetness dripping down the insides of her thighs. Involuntarily, she pushes her hips backwards, seeking any sort of reprieve from the sweet ache that’s taken residence in her lower body.

He tsks and holds her steady, stopping her from rocking backwards. “Hold still.”

She nearly cries, she’s so frustrated. “Then just—” her words get cut off with an embarrassingly loud moan when he pushes into her without warning. She throws her head back at the sensation, rises to her hands again. But then his hand is on her head, forcing it back down to the pillow. “Head down,” he orders as he begins to thrust into her. “And didn’t I say stay on your elbows?”

Fuck, he did. She drops back to her elbows, letting his hand push her head back to the pillow.

He’s slow for the first few thrusts, but then, when she settles into position, he begins to pick it up, faster, to an almost punishing sort of pace. All the while she tries to remain still, but she can’t. The way he’s slamming into her makes her want to rise up and meet his thrusts with equal force. Every time she does, though, his hand is there to push her back down. And when he he shifts and starts hitting that sweet spot inside her, her knees buckle on their own and she begins to sink. He’s ready for that; his arm wraps around her, hand bracing against her stomach to push her lower body up, higher on her knees.

“Bellamy,” she cries into the mattress, leaning her head against her forearm.

He leans over her and bites her shoulder blade. “Fuck, say it again.”

“Bellamy.”

“Like you mean it this time.” His breath is hot against her back. She feels his finger trail from her belly and lower, and when he touches her she keens and grabs onto the headboard. “ _Bellamy_!”

He keeps rubbing, driving into her, and it’s all too much. She comes apart, shuddering at the force of it, but he’s still slamming into her at the same pace, so after her orgasm has come and gone she’s left a boneless mess, hardly able to support herself on her knees while he drives into her over and over. He’s aware of her inability to keep her position, keeping one hand around her hips to hold her up. At the same time, his other hand reaches for where her hand is clutching onto the headboard, seizes her wrist and wrenches it down roughly, so that she tumbles helplessly back to her elbows. For emphasis he pushes her head down into the pillow.

She might be mortified at how much this display of dominance turns her on, if she weren’t literally panting with want at the moment.

While his hand slides down her breasts, she realizes she’s going to come again, and she can’t even remember the last time that happened in one go.

He senses it, though. “Don’t you dare,” he barks, tugging on her sweaty hair. “Not til I say.”

Feeling frustrated tears glazing her cheeks, she bites her lip, rocking back into him as she feels the pressure coil in her lower body. He doesn’t say anything about it this time, probably because he’s close to the edge himself.

He shifts again, pulling her near limp body backwards until she’s practically in his lap, fucking up into her at a new angle. Her breath stutters in her chest.

“Bellamy, I need to—”

“No.” he wraps his arms around her chest, hands on her breasts, and presses his face into her back.

She cries out in frustration at the ceiling. “Fuck you, Bell—”

“That’s the idea,” he says, and she hears the dark grin in his voice, and she’s considering just letting go because _fuck_ Bellamy and his rules, but then he says, “Okay.” He almost sounds like he’s about to laugh. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She comes apart immediately, shuddering in his arms, and almost simultaneously, she feels him do the same.

He lets go of her. Boneless, she sinks into the mattress, knees and elbows buckling so she lies flat on her stomach. He slips out of her as she does and follows suit, draping most of his body over her. His weight is comforting on top of her. They’ll get up to clean themselves up soon enough, but right now both of them are awash in lazy euphoria.

She closes her eyes at his warmth and turns her face to the side to look at him. He’s got his chin propped against her shoulder and is watching her with dark eyes. “You good?” he asks, voice startlingly gentle compared to the harsh growl it had been just moments ago.

She nods, reaching a hand up to pull her sweaty hair off the back of her neck and to the side. “Yeah.” He kisses her cheek and lies his face back against her shoulder.

They lie like that silently for Clarke doesn’t know how long. All she knows is that when he finally pulls himself up, the sun is starting to set and it’s still too soon.

—

She gets her period for the third time and this time she sits on the toilet and has a good cry, as silent she can so he won’t hear if he’s around this part of the house.

She hears his footsteps creak up the staircase and tries to stifle her own sobs. She hears him pause by the door, and she keeps silent as she can, face going red at the effort, until his steps finally continue on past it.

—

Clarke tries to hide it from him, this insecurity about her own body, but eventually he comes to notice it.

It’s not because she wants him to know about it, but he can tell. She’s been tense for a while. But she doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is, so he doesn’t ask.

They are lying under the sheets one morning, not speaking; they’d just had sex and she’s uncharacteristically silent. Bellamy is staring idly at the Starry Night replica hanging on the opposite wall when he hears a little sniff.

He turns his head automatically, and his heart just _seizes_ when he sees how contorted her face is, brows furrowed and mouth curled into a miserable frown. He puts his hand on her naked hip, alarmed, and caresses her skin. “Clarke? Why are you crying?”

She blinks, and her expression clears if only in confusion so she can reach her hand up and touch the wetness streaking her own cheeks. She stares at it, the glistening on her finger, and then he sees her eyes grow even more wet.

“Clarke,” he says again, worried. He nudges at her collarbone with his nose, in a silent encouragement to talk.

She drops her hand down to her side. “Bellamy,” she whispers, and her voice wavers and is thick with unshed tears, “what if I’m damaged?”

“Damaged?” He repeats, because it seems an obvious question with an obvious answer. They are both damaged. Beyond belief.

“We’ve been trying for so long,” she says, desolate, and now more tears prickle from her eyes and she makes no move to stop them. “So _long_ , Bellamy. What if I just can’t have kids anymore? What if it’s hopeless?”

Her words hang in the air, and it takes Bellamy a moment to scramble for the meaning to them. His mouth falls open slightly when she does. She thinks… that? “Why would you think that? Clarke, sometimes it just takes a while—”

“What if the radiation on Earth destroyed that part of me?” She cuts him off, and it sounds like she’s finally voicing concerns that have been festering in her too long, now flooding out of her without hesitation. “They called me the Commander of Death, maybe there’s no life left in me to give.”

“ _Don’t_ say that,” he cuts her off immediately, and she blinks as if surprised by the ferocity. He leans up on one elbow to look down at her, to look somberly into her eyes. He wants her to see the truth in them when he says this. “That whole Grounder thing is superstition, you know that.”

“Maybe.” She turns her face away from him, and he puts a hand on her cheek to gently try to bring her back to him. “Or maybe we can’t have kids, and it’s my fault.” Her voice cracks, and to his horror she starts to cry in earnest, shoulders shaking, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

No, no no. “Okay, who says it’s _your_ fault?” Bellamy soothes, stroking his hand over her face, over her shoulder, running his fingers down the strands of her hair splayed about on the pillow. It doesn’t seem to help. “It could be me. If it’s true, it could be either of us. You can’t beat yourself up over something like that.”

And yet, she will, he knows. He can tell because he knows he’s not reaching her. Her eyes are far away, glassy as her shoulders tremble with restrained sobs. Suddenly the only thing he knows is a desire to take that pain away.

He leans down and presses a kiss at her jaw. “Shh. Shh. It’s okay.”

Her sobs are just getting louder. “We can’t have that— the one thing we want, the one thing left I was supposed to be able to do, and I can’t even do it.”

“No,” he retorts, shocked she would even think such a thing about herself, degrade herself to just a vessel for a child. “No, that’s not it. Clarke— please, Clarke—”

She shakes her head, closing her eyes shut tightly. He can’t bare to see that agony in her expression. In desperation, he leans down to her ear. “Okay. Okay. Shh. Just let me make you feel good. Can I? Will you let me help you feel good?”

He’s pleading, but his voice breaks a little at the end, because seeing her so broken cracks a fissure into his own flimsy armor. Maybe she hears the fact that he’s begging, that loving her well will help him as much as her to deflect those feelings of self-doubt, those feelings of not being _quite enough_ ; because she just nods silently, continuing to cry.

They’re both sad and broken, and maybe this is all they have left anymore.

He nods back, blinking away his own tears, and then he’s kissing down her body, first at her collarbones, dancing around her breasts, making her whine a little; soft presses against her stomach, hands stroking at her hips, and then his head settles between her thighs and she automatically cards her hands into his curly hair. He can still hear her crying softly above him.

He kisses the inside of her right thigh, close to where she wants to be touched, and then throws her leg over his shoulder.

When he presses the flat of his tongue against her, her breath hitches mid-sob.

He gets to work, licking straight up her slit, and then spearing her with his tongue. He can’t get enough of her taste, thick and tangy— he devours her, and then he sucks on her clit and listens closely as her sounds of crying and pain transition into moans and sighs. He brings her to orgasm with his tongue alone, feels her tense around him. But he keeps going, working her through it, adding a finger, and then he _keeps_ going as she keens against him until she’s coming all over again.

Even then he doesn’t stop. She doesn’t tell him to, either.

Clarke’s hands tug at his hair violently as she moans, making his eyes water, and he thinks he makes a sound of pain because then she lets go of his hair to bite on her own knuckles. She’s hot as hell, writhing above him, and he forcibly stops himself from rutting against the mattress. This is about her.

He loves listening to the sounds she makes.

He loves the fact that— she never calls him Bell, ever— but sometimes when they’re having sex, she does. And it’s only because she’s trying to get out his full name but she keeps tripping over the word.

He listens as she gasps, “Bell— Bell— Bell—” in time with every relentless lash of his tongue, and he loves the way he can hear her breath hitch somewhere between the syllables. He can tell she’s close to the edge by the way her voice gets higher with every utterance of his name until it’s just a squeak, “ _Bell—_ ” and how he feels her toes curling against the expanse of his back.

He pushes another finger into her, and her thighs clamp like a vice around his head momentarily and he taps her thigh as a reminder for her to loosen her hold. “Bell— _oh_ ,” she cries softly.

Her voice is throaty here, and he takes a moment to lean away to mutter “fuck,” breath hot against her center, before he adjusts his hold on her legs and buries his face between her thighs again.

That’s when she comes for the third time, and he laps up everything she has greedily— and he thinks she might be able to come _again_ , so he’s got every intent of staying down there until he feels her tug on his hair and he realizes she’s crying again, almost _sobbing_. It takes a panicked moment for him to realize that the flush rising on her chest, and the sighs in between the tears, mean she’s crying solely from pleasure now. Satisfied, he crawls back up her body, wiping the slick on his mouth and chin with the back of his hand.

She watches with hooded eyes as he does, eyes flickering down to his fingers, and then she slings her arms a little limply around his shoulders and brings him down into the pillows beside her. She takes his hand when he’s turned towards her, and licks her own slick off his fingers.

It’s so fucking hot; he can’t stop his own hand from travelling down to where he’s aching. But then he feels her hand on top of his. “Let me do that,” she tells him, voice low and raspy. He turns his head into the pillow a little because he’s blushing like a little kid.

“Clarke, you don’t have to—”

“This makes me feel good, too,” she tells him.

She jerks him off slowly, with leisurely strokes. She watches him choke on his protests, a lazy, sated smile gracing her lips.

Lips he wants so badly to kiss.

Those words come to mind when he’s on the verge of coming undone in her hand, and if that doesn’t speak to how much this woman wrecks him completely physically, emotionally, every way possible, he doesn’t know what would.

—

But he can’t distract Clarke from her demons forever.

—

It’s about a month or so later when he emerges from the washroom, having taken a shower after going hunting. He got them rabbit today, which he’s looking forward to seasoning and popping in the oven. He and Clarke have slowly been figuring out the perfect settings to make the oven work properly.

But she’s not in the bedroom, which wouldn’t normally worry him at all. He goes downstairs, poking his head in the living room, the kitchen, all the usual places to find her.

She’s not there.

Feeling mildly anxious, he goes to the garage, the dining room they don’t use, the other bedrooms.

She’s not there.

And— he notes when he passes the front door— her shoes are gone.

Feeling frantic now, he goes back to the kitchen and tries to remember the last thing she said to him.

 _Go ahead_ , she’d prompted him, when he said he was going to take a shower. He’d said it partly as an invitation if she wanted to join him, and the fact that she sidestepped the implication wasn’t something he’d worried about at the time. But now...

It’s stupid of him, but his biggest fear almost feels like it’s coming to pass right now. That maybe she just left.

She wouldn’t do that, he tells himself. She wouldn’t.

His hands continue to shake anyway.

To steady them, he grips the edges of the kitchen table and leans over it, trying to breathe evenly and tell himself that he’s blowing something tiny out of proportion. That’s when he sees the empty bottle in the middle of the table.

It’s the last wine bottle, he realizes. They’d drank a good half of it already, but it looks like she just… drank the rest. By herself. He can’t recall if she sounded tipsy when he came home from hunting, but then again he’d hardly spoken to her. Maybe she hadn’t been tipsy at all; maybe that bit of wine hadn’t been enough. And they hadn’t found any more alcohol in the house, either, so she couldn’t have just gotten drunk and wandered off, either…

Wait.

He straightens up and goes back to the front hall, where he’d see her shoes were absent. Something else is gone, too. His eyes stray to to the noticeably unhindered hook on the coat rack, where one of the Grounder coats had been hanging.

Oh, no. She _didn’t_.

—

Clarke slams back another shot and waves a finger lazily in the direction of the bartender.

Honestly, she knows this whole idea of hers was incredibly stupid, but she just wanted to get drunk, and the wine they had left in the kitchen just wasn’t enough. So her mind had strayed, and she remembered the little tavern not far from ALIE’s mansion that Rya used to go after a long day of searching.

But hey, she’d planned a little bit. She’s wearing Grounder clothes, her hood up and hair tied back so her blonde tresses and blue eyes would be less visible. And besides, literally everyone here looks like they’re travellers, lonely, or with no clue what they’re doing with their lives. And that includes the bartenders.

It’s like a place for the weary and the lost to rest. And Clarke is both. Especially since she woke up this morning to her fourth period since she and Bellamy had started having sex.

And she broke, but not in the same way as before. She really couldn’t take being sober right then, alone with her thoughts.

So she leans her head against the wall— she’s sitting in the far corner, shrouded in the darkness away from the lanterns that glow up the insides of the tavern. She winks lazily at the woman across the bar that’s been ordering her drinks. She’s not sure where the flirting might lead and she’s not really concerned, either.

Someone plunks into the seat beside her, _right_ beside her, and she looks up a little, both surprised and alarmed.

The alarm goes away the moment the large Grounder looks at her and she sees his eyes under the hood and cloth. She sighs and looks back at her drink.

“How’d you find me?” she asks, running her fingers along the rim of her glass.

Bellamy settles in, turning his head to cast a weary look around the tavern. “Educated guess.” The tavern is so loud that she has to strain her ears to hear his rumbling response.

“Hmm.” She tosses her glass back again. He watches her. They’re both silent for a minute, listening to the sounds of a loud and violent bar fight on the opposite side of the room. Then:

“Want to tell me what you’re doing here, Clarke?”

“Getting drunk,” she replies affably, and bumps his shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”

He sounds completely casual as well. “And how are you going to pay for your drinks?”

She shrugs. “It’s covered. Girl over there.”

He doesn’t even look. Maybe he already knows, and he’s just testing her. She wouldn’t doubt it if he’d scoped out the entire situation before sitting down. “She’s obviously looking for something in exchange, Clarke.”

He sounds… a little jealous under that simmering, seemingly nonchalant demeanor.

“I’ll be gone before she comes looking,” Clarke replies.

He sounds a little angrier now. “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

She tilts her head to smile big at him. “That’s a pretty heavy declaration. You sure about that?”

“I’m being serious, Clarke.” When she reaches for her glass again, he pulls it towards himself. She frowns. “ _Rya_ comes here. He might recognize us. And we’re surrounded by Grounders who’d love to kill us both if they knew who we were.”

“No one asked you to come,” she retorts, reaching for her glass. He pushes it out of reach and puts his hand on her arm, fingers wrapping easily around her bicep.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

“No,” she says petulantly, and when he tugs, she remains a rock in her stool, snatching her glass back from where he’s pushed it.

He narrows his eyes at her. “Come on.” He tugs harder.

“No!” she shouts at him, and it’s actually kind of loud, loud enough that a few people sitting in their vicinity actually turn their heads.

He releases her, eyes wide with fear.

The bartender, a man with one eye, one hand and one leg (Clarke doesn’t want to know _that_ story) limps over. “Is he giving you trouble?” he asks in Trigedasleng as he hands her another drink, giving Bellamy a venomous glare.

Clarke shakes her head jerkily. Luckily, the man leaves it well alone and wanders off, but Clarke knows how close she just was to blowing their cover.

Bellamy sits back in the stool beside her, now completely silent, and that’s worse. She feels tears in her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond in any way. “I just… I’m so tired, Bellamy.”

He turns his head then, and she’s relieved that his eyes, the only part of his face she can see, are soft now.

“It didn’t work again,” he correctly guesses that she’s gotten her period.

She nods, leaning her chin on her hand. “Yeah.”

Silence, until she can’t bear it anymore. She turns back to him.

“I’m so tired of not being enough, Bellamy.”

His hand slides across the stained metal surface of the bar to cover hers. It gives her the courage to open up a bit more to him.

“Maybe the world decided I didn’t deserve it.” She stares down at her drink. “I know it’s stupid, but— I can’t help but remember the times that I’ve— I’ve killed _children_ , Bellamy. Like at Mount Weather. I’ve killed children, so why do I deserve my own?”

She sees him stiffen in her peripheral vision at her mention of Mount Weather. She waits, thinking he’s going to tell her she didn’t _want_ to kill children, and besides, they did that _together—_ but he doesn’t say anything at all. For so long that she turns to face him and sees that he’s staring straight ahead, and the part of his face that’s not covered in his disguise looks startlingly pale.

“Bellamy?”

“What if… what if it _is_ my fault?” he asks quietly.

She tilts her head. He’s brought up this possibility before, and she’d airily dismissed it— Bellamy, so full of life, so full of vitality? She’d never dream it was _him_. But he suddenly sounds very certain. Like it’s not only a possibility, but a fact. “What do you…?”

“When I was in Mount Weather,” He says all in a rush. “they… did things to me. To us.” He’s now got a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bar.

She stares at him.

When she offers no response, he goes on, slouching a little as if in shame. “When they captured us, there were a lot of procedures. Pills and shots and—” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down anxiously— “I don’t know what everything was. There was a lot of it. But it might have made me…” And he trails off, sounding almost ashamed, as if this is something _he’s_ to blame for, and she’s overwhelmed suddenly with the desire to comfort him.

She doesn’t know the full extent of the torture Bellamy had gone through in Mount Weather, but it hurts her heart to think about. And it hurts her more to think that he thinks she would somehow resent him for infertility brought on by what he’d endured. “It’s not your fault,” she says firmly, tapping his cloth-covered cheekbone with her finger. “That was years ago, and it’s _not_ your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I sent you in there. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she sees his jaw clench. She pushes her half-full glass towards him. He glances at it, hesitates for a fraction of a second, and then downs it in one gulp.

He takes a breath and says, “ _I’m_ sorry, Clarke. If it’s true, then— then I can’t give you the one thing you want. I can’t give _us_ that.” The grief in his voice is palpable.

“No,” she tells him vehemently, suddenly obsessed with convincing him of a different perspective, one that she wasn’t even supporting a few minutes ago. “Even if you’re right about this, it’s okay. If we never get to have a baby, we deal with it, okay? That’s what we _do_.”

“But I can’t give you what you want,” he insists, sounding a little broken. “The thing I offered you. I _promised_ you.” He runs his gloved hand over his face.

“I don’t care,” she says, and she’s surprised at how her words, designed to placate him, ring true to her. “I don’t care, as long as we’re together. The only thing I really need anymore is you.” It’s the absolute truth that she hardly ever admits to herself, and her soul feels a little lighter for speaking it out loud.

He’s silent again, still not looking at her.

“We have each other,” she reasserts, and the more she thinks it, the more she starts to believe it, the more she starts to feel the emptiness in her chest be replaced with a comforting, warm weight. “Maybe we’re both too broken to have a family. Maybe we’ll never get what we want, but we still have _this_. And maybe that should be _enough_.”

She doesn’t expect him to say anything, but he does. “You’re more than enough,” he tells her, voice rough.

She smiles at him, a little tearfully. She’s so grateful, so fucking thankful that out of everyone she’s known in her life, he’s the one who’s still here. The one who understands her like no one else does. “I don’t know how long the rest of our lives are going to be,” she says, and her voice breaks; but this time it’s just the opposite of sadness. “All I know is I’m happy that I get to spend it with you.” She swallows. “Do you feel the same?”

He finally turns and meets her eyes. There’s a tear pooling just under his eye, so she runs her thumb along it to wipe it away. He closes his eyes briefly at the touch. And then she stands up from her stool to wrap her arms around him.

He accepts her hug readily, arms wrapping tightly around her waist as if it’s second nature, and she burrows her nose into the crook of his neck and closes her eyes. And they hug like that, in the middle of an obnoxiously loud tavern full of Grounders, yet somehow it still feels like the most peaceful moment Clarke has known in a long time.

She sniffles a bit, and she hears him say, “You’re not just saying this because you’re drunk, right?”

She swats his arm as they pull apart. “I didn’t drink _that_ much, you ass.”

He searches her expression, and she supposes he finds what he was looking for, because he nods. “Then yes.”

She smiles and reaches forward to link her arm around his. “Let’s go home, Bellamy.”

—

Clarke and Bellamy go back to the mansion.

They cook the rabbit that Bellamy brought back from the day’s hunt, and it comes out of the oven perfect. They’ve finally got a handle on how to use the oven, and Clarke feels absolutely giddy over it.

After dinner, they play foosball in the den. Clarke wins.

“You fucking cheated,” he accuses her as she whoops, spinning her controls with excitement.

“How the hell did I _cheat_?”

“You grabbed the ball _with your hand_ and chucked it into the goa—” Before he can finish talking, Clarke throws a couch pillow at his face. He stops it before he catches the brunt of the hit, lowers the pillow with his eyebrows raised.

Clarke turns and grabs another pillow, a larger one.

There _might_ be a pillow fight involved.

He’s stronger than her, but Clarke plays dirty so it’s a draw. The pillow fight eventually devolves into a tickle fight, and Clarke laughs so hard there are tears in her eyes, while he tells her sternly that he’ll stop when she says sorry for cheating.

She gives in, eventually, and then they’re both tired.

They don’t have sex that night. They fall asleep together on the couch in the den in a tangle of limbs.

That feeling of peace lasts all night.

—

The next time they _do_ have sex, it’s different.

Normally he’s the one stealing kisses over her body, but this time she can’t help but do it herself. She straddles his waist and bends her head and kisses him all over his face, his neck, his chest, anywhere she can reach; all the while he has his eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

When she’s run out of places to kiss (barring lips) he flips them over and fucks her slowly. Except it doesn’t feel like fucking, not the way he looks intently into her eyes like he wants to fall into them.

It makes her a little uncomfortable, which is why she digs her heels into his lower back and urges him to go faster. He complies, and soon enough she’s overwhelmed with the feeling of him inside her, his hands on her skin, as he rattles off a rapid stream of words into her ear in a voice an octave deeper than usual.

This is why she’s not immediately alarmed when he murmurs, “God, I love you.”

Clarke thinks nothing of it at first. Instead, she parrots him; it’s a force of habit. She loves urging him to talk to her because it’s so _hot_ , and she’s oh so close to the brink. “Yeah, Bell— Bellamy,” she pants, throwing her head back. “You love me so good.”

She feels his hands on her cheeks, tilting her head to look at him. “No,” he corrects. “I love you so _much_.”

She freezes, completely shocked; but she’s already so close to orgasm that she crashes over the edge anyway. He follows suit moments later, burying his face into her shoulder and sighing.

She doesn’t stay in bed much longer. She rolls off the mattress silently, and he doesn’t stop her.

“Clarke,” she hears him begin, but she’s already walked out of the room.

—

The next few days are a haze for Clarke. She doesn’t talk to Bellamy much, but spends most of the time in her head. Realizing a lot of things.

Logically, she knows— she _knows_ Bellamy loves her. She’s known it deep inside for a long time. But she’s always equated that love with need. They _need_ each other to survive. They _need_ each other for support. They’ve always just _needed_ each other. But he’s _not_ supposed to say that word to her. Not like this.

Clarke knows what happens to people who love her— and to people that she loves back.

There’s a part of her that subconsciously has always wondered that maybe the reason that Bellamy was the one left standing, after life had torn away everyone else, was because she always kept his heart at arm’s length. She’d wanted to keep it that way. Maybe it was stupid, but she’d thought, _if I don’t fall in love him, he won’t die_ too.

Well, she’s just now understanding that she failed in this task spectacularly, and she’s marvelling a little bit, actually, at her own lack of self-awareness.

No more, she vows. _No more_.

—

The next time he reaches for her in bed, she turns him away.

“I’m not going to get pregnant,” she says, turning her body to stare out the window. “We might as well accept that.”

Lying behind her, he doesn’t say anything for a while, but then: “Are we okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Of course.” She still doesn’t look at him.

They both know she’s lying.

—

It’s weeks later when she wakes up crying.

She opens her eyes with her pillowcase wet, and her shoulders are shaking, wracked with sobs.

Bellamy is sleeping soundly beside her, nose just brushing her forehead and arm secured around her back, drawing her body into his. He doesn’t stir, mostly because Clarke represses her body’s movements almost immediately.

It was a nightmare, she tells herself while staring at his peaceful, sleeping face. It’s not real, her mom isn’t actually telling her she’s a failure, no…

But her mom _is_ dead. _That_ part is real.

She bites her lip, drawing blood. She doesn’t want to deal with this grief. She’s tired. She wants to feel something else right now.

Bellamy shifts sleepily, and she realizes his knee is slightly in between her legs when he moves.

She’s feeling broken, her back hurts and isn’t thinking straight, which is really the only explanation for her rolling her hips against his knee, fitting herself more firmly on his leg.

His body tenses a little in sleep but nothing else.

She wraps her arms around his neck, face still streaked with tears, and begins to cant her hips against him, movements gaining confidence until she’s rutting against his leg.

He groans, and she feels him stirring. He’s beginning to wake up. She can’t bring herself to stop. She’s desperate for a different kind of feeling than the one she’s feeling right now, no matter how fleeting it may be.

His hands tighten around her waist, and she knows he’s _very_ awake now. “Clarke?” his voice is rough with sleep.

She presses her forehead against his shoulder without stopping and shakes her head, unable to stop a single sob from shaking her shoulders.

He sighs. “Clarke.”

He gets it, she can tell.

Which is why his hands trail to her hips, and he begins to push her down on his leg, thrusting his knee up slightly to help her get more friction. She works herself on his leg like that for a few moments, but it’s not enough. And now she’s just frustrated.

‘Bellamy,” she grits out, biting his shoulder.

“Got you,” he says softly, and then he’s lifting them both up, ninety degrees sideways, and scooting forward so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and she’s straddling his leg. It’s a much better angle, and she sighs when her clit catches a rough seam of his sleep shorts.

“Want more?” his voice, rough from sleep, is dark and delicious now for a different reason. He lifts his leg up a little, brings her down a little harder. She wraps her arms his neck tighter and leans her chest against his face to get better leverage.

“Is that better?” he asks against her breasts, and she nods fast as she moves against him. “God, Clarke. You’re so hot like this. Fucking yourself on my leg. Hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.” He runs one hand under her thin camisole as he talks, hand searing on the skin of her upper back. It drives her a little wild, heightens her senses, and she feels a familiar tightening in her core.

Bellamy’s so attuned to her body by this time that he can tell right away. “Come for me,” he murmurs against her skin, and presses both his hands on her hips again, grinding her down slow at the perfect angle. She does. She comes so hard that it fills her whole body with an aching, overwhelming sweetness and leaves fresh tears in her eyes. She stills her movements and gasps against his hair, waves of pleasure rocking over her.

He pats her back gently and rocks her back and forth, like a baby, while she absorbs it.

And when she finally finds the strength to push herself off his shoulders, she notes without any surprise that he’s hard. He’s not paying it any attention, though; he’s watching her with soft, understanding eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

Her heart’s in her throat because now that the pleasure’s fading somewhat, it’s being replaced with shame.

She’s been rejecting him for days, and just now— She practically rode him like a horse. And he’s sitting there asking if she’s _okay_.

She feels guilty.

He runs a hand down her arm when she doesn’t answer, and she can’t take it.

“I’m sorry,” she says abruptly, climbing off his lap to take a few steps back on shaky legs. She wipes at her eyes with her wrists.

“You don’t have to apologize for nightmares, Clarke.”

“No.” She gestures a trembling hand at him without looking up. “I’m sorry for— this. I’m sorry for doing this. I don’t mean to— lead you on. So I’m sorry.”

Silence for a long moment, where all she hears are the crows picking through last night’s trash outside. Then:

“Well, I’m not.” And he sounds _angry_.

She’s blinks and finally looks at him.

His expression is almost a snarl, and under his mess of curls he’s glaring at her full-force as he bites out his next words. “I’m not sorry at all. For any of it.” Her mouth drops open, and he goes on, standing up to full height and jabbing a finger at her. It’s like he’s snapped. “I’m not sorry for trying for a baby with you, or letting you use me like a fucking sex toy, or any of the other things we’ve done. You know why, Clarke?”

He doesn’t wait for her to answer.

“Because I’m in love with you. And that, maybe I _am_ a little sorry for.”

And then, he turns on the heel and storms out of the room, leaving Clarke to sink slowly onto the space on the bed he just vacated with a hand clapped over her mouth and tears on her cheeks.

—

She doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. It’s probably for the best— she doesn’t know what to say to him. She doesn’t know how to explain that the reason she wants distance between them is because she cares too much. She’s not even really sure how to explain it to _herself_ , really. But she needs him to understand.

For now, she lets him have his space. His hunting gear is gone when she tentatively ventures downstairs, and she’s not worried.

She _does_ get a little worried when the sun sets and he’s not back. She toys with the idea of going after him, maybe searching some of his usual spots, but she squashes the urge. He probably just wants to be alone.

But she’s downright terrified when night falls like a dark blanket over the sky, and she’s sitting on the couch hugging her knees with her face turned to the window, to the treeline, hardly blinking in case she misses something. She sits there for a long time, and something he’d said months ago pops into mind.

 _I’m never just gonna up and leave. You have to know that_.

As the hours pass, she finds herself mentally repeating those words over and over like a prayer, with increasing desperation.

_I’m never just gonna up and leave._

Maybe it all became too much for him, she thinks; her indecisiveness, her inability to commit, to take into account his feelings.

 _You have to know that_.

Eventually, it occurs to her that maybe Bellamy _lied_.

—

Bellamy just went to blow off some steam. He really didn’t mean to get captured by Grounders. Not that that was _ever_ on his to-do list for the day, but still.

One moment he’s bagging a wild turkey, and the next there’s a sharp pain at the back of his head and he’s out cold.

He comes to when a burlap sack gets wrenched off his head and his eyes are assaulted immediately by blaring, obnoxious light. It must be morning.

 _Clarke_ , is the first thing he thinks with a sick feeling in his gut. She must be wondering what happened to him.

The next thing he processes is that he’s on his knees with his wrists and ankles tied, and a gag in his mouth. There’s a group of Grounders surrounding him, examining him while he scrambles for his bearings.

They’re talking in Trigedasleng, and he tunes them out for a moment in favour of sweeping his eyes left and right in his line of sight. They’re in a large tent, but he can’t see the entrance. The only thing he can see is the outline of trees just beyond the tent’s fabric walls.

Then he tunes back in.

“... if _he’s_ here, Wanheda can’t be far behind,” one is arguing.

“Unless they don’t work together anymore,” the other says.

“They still work together,” another confirms, and Bellamy recognizes him as the bartender at the tavern, the one lacking an eye and an arm and a leg and (clearly) a heart. “She was with him at my bar.”

“Let’s just ask him,” the first says, and next thing he knows the gag is being wrenched out of his mouth. The Grounder switches to English. “Where is Wanheda?”

“Who the hell is Wanheda?” Bellamy replies, and he’s rewarded with a dull blow the to the side of his head, sending him sprawling onto his stomach before he’s hauled up to his knees again.

“Easy, Walt,” says a new voice behind Bellamy, to the one who kicked him. Bellamy recognizes the voice, and jerks his head to the side to look.

It’s Rya.

Xander’s father.

And— Bellamy’s eyes lower a bit— he’s holding Xander in his arms.

Bellamy turns his head back to the front immediately, heart beating fast. Xander won’t recognize him, he tells himself. It’s been months, and he’s just a little kid.

He looks so _big_ now, though. Longer hair, grew a little into the fat on his cheeks. Bellamy wants to take another look but doesn’t dare. Rya doesn’t know yet, and he plans to keep it that way.

Meanwhile, the one called Walt sneers at Rya. “Have you forgotten how many of our people this man has killed?”

“I haven’t,” Rya replies calmly. “But we’re doing this together, Walt. All three of our tribes agreed when we first found them. That when we finally decided what to do with them, it was going to be the kind of death they deserved. Not personal revenge, at your hand. Revenge for our entire _people_.”

Bellamy only hears one thing from this sentence: _When_ they found them? When?

He must show some kind of visible reaction to this sentence, because the Grounder woman who’s been interrogating him smirks. “When you and Wanheda took refuge at the dropship,” she tells him, “we watched for months. As you dug your bombs into the earth, thinking you were stealthy. You were not.” She spits at his feet and Bellamy blinks in confusion before he realizes.

Oh. They think… they think he and Clarke have been planting a minefield around the dropship, not a graveyard. He might laugh if his head didn’t hurt like a bitch right now.

She goes on, watching him balefully. “We were content to let you do it, while we argued over what we were going to do with you. It was easier to let you live there instead of try to keep you from escaping while we debated. But just when we decided, you _left_.” She bares her teeth. “We almost thought we’d been robbed of vengeance.”

“No need to tell him everything,” Rya says. Xander babbles against his shoulder, a familiar sound that makes Bellamy’s heart drop. The interrogator ignores Rya’s words.

“But then you showed at the tavern.” She nods a head at the bartender. “And we knew you were close by. Now we have you again. You’re not getting away this time.”

Walt wrenches unnecessarily on Bellamy’s hair, even though he’s not moving at all, making a few tears come to Bellamy’s eyes. “Extermination of the Sky rats, finally.” He sounds gleeful.

“Stick to the plan,” Rya warns.

“Plan!” Xander chants. “Plan!” Bellamy closes his eyes. Even Xander’s voice sounds a little different.

“Plan?” Walt’s voice is low and deadly. “My wife-- _Willa_ \-- is dead because of them.”

“And many of my friends and family,” Rya replies. “That doesn’t mean I should act out my own personal vengeance.”

“They need a worse death than what was decided.”

“What was decided was decided,” Rya replies idly. Bellamy’s starting to see that even though these leftover Grounder groups have come together momentarily just to kill him and Clarke, it’s clear that Rya is starting to assert leadership over all of them. He reminds Bellamy a little bit of Clarke, actually. “I think it’s time to put him in the cell til we find Wanheda. He’s already heard too much.”

“And _how_ are we going to find her?”

You won’t, Bellamy thinks determinedly.

“We won’t,” The interrogator, echoes his thoughts. “But she will come to us, looking for him.”

Bellamy hates how true those words ring, and when they pull him up, he hopes for once she won’t try to be the hero.

Walt notices his discomfort and leans in so Bellamy’s treated to the close-up of the Grounder’s beady eyes. “She will! Isn’t that right, Belomi?” He sounds delighted, in a malicious sort of way.

Bellamy spits in his face, and it’s mostly blood. “You’ll never find Clarke.” He earns a punch in the stomach, but then Xander speaks.

“Mama?” Xander says curiously, turning his head to Bellamy. Their eyes meet, Bellamy’s brown to the little boy’s green, and Bellamy knows right then that he’s recognized him.

Shit.

“Ba-ba,” Xander yelps excitedly, stretching his arms out.

Rya glances down at his son, then back at Bellamy. Bellamy sees him doing the math in his head, and when he gets to the answer, the man’s eyes widen.

He doesn’t say anything, though; the other Grounders haven’t noticed the interaction at all.

Bellamy is dragged out of the room, the bag thrown back on his head, and Rya doesn’t say anything at all.

—

They put Bellamy in what looks to be an underground cell with a tall ceiling, and there’s a small trapdoor at the centre of the ceiling allowing the afternoon light to stream in. He can’t reach it, even when he jumps, even when he tries to jump off the wall, and soon he gives up, sitting down and closes his eyes.

He opens them when he hears a scuffle from above, early in the evening.

He can see figures moving furiously up beyond the trapdoor. And then he hears—

“Hey! Let me go!”

Clarke.

Shit. He clenches his fists and curses aloud while the scuffle continues, and then he gets up to stand right below the trapdoor.

Sure enough, a moment later the hatch opens and Clarke’s body comes hurtling through. He’s ready though— he catches her before she can hit her head, and eases her gently to the floor.

The trapdoor shuts, sealing them away again, but he’s got his head bent, focused entirely on scanning her form for injuries. He sees a bruise blooming on her temple, and anger surges in him. He brushes the skin with his fingers. “You shouldn’t have come.”

She bats them away and lunges forward to hug him. He’s a little caught off guard, especially after how he yelled at her the last time they were in the same room.

She holds on tightly for several seconds before she pulls away, tears in her eyes. She’s dirty and her hair is knotted, scrapes on her arms, but she looks elated. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t just up and leave.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You thought that?”

Her smile fades and she bites her lip. “I thought… I don’t know,” she trails off softly. They stare at each other, a whole sea of misunderstandings between them.

Clarke bridges the gap by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s figure out a way out of here, first.”

He nods.

—

“Just a little farther,” Clarke mutters, reaching for the padlock of the trapdoor.

Her feet are balancing on Bellamy’s shoulders, and it’s very precarious but she’s got her fingers just barely brushing the bars and— well, they don’t have anything to cut the lock with yet, but maybe she can test the bars at least.

He hears noise outside the cell, in the hallway. “Clarke,” he hisses.

She pays him no heed. “Almost there.”

“They’re coming.”

They’re _way_ too close for comfort, but Clarke shushes him and then she’s stretched on her tiptoes, and she’s got her fingers wrapped around the lock and she tugs.

Miraculously, the rusty thing breaks in her hands.

She whoops a little, but neither of them get a chance to celebrate because that’s when the dungeon door opens and the shouting and then the _hurting_ start.

After a minute of tussling, the Grounders have them on opposite sides of the room with their arms wrenched behind their backs. The padlock of the trap door rests on the floor between them.

So fucking _close_.

One of the Grounders punches Clarke in the chest, making her gasp for breath, and Bellamy feels ferocious anger surge through his veins. “Don’t touch her,” he yells, lunging.

It takes four men to hold him back, and even then they strain against his movement. The woman who punched Clarke turns to consider him and then punches Clarke in the face, making her head whip back.

This time Bellamy actually breaks free, and his finger graze the woman’s neck before he’s pulled back several steps again. “I’m going to kill you!” he bellows, and he doesn’t even recognize his own voice, how animalistic it sounds.

They laugh, and he feels frustrated tears prick the back of his eyes. Clarke, for the most part, has stopped fighting now, and she shakes her head minutely at him.

 _Save the fight_ , she’s saying.

He stills.

—

The Grounders drag him and Clarke into a new cell, one without bars on the ceiling— it’s wall to wall to floor to ceiling rock, and he feels despair creep through him as they chain him up by the wrists, so his arms are raised above him, and facing the wall. Clarke gets chained up besides him, but just out of reach.

When the door swings heavily shut behind them, he leans his head forward against the rock wall. “What now?”

She tugs at her shackles experimentally, but both of them know that’s not going to work. She sighs. “I don’t know, Bellamy.”

They lapse into silence, a long one. Bellamy turns the situation over in his head again and again… there must be something they missed here, some weak point they can exploit.

They can get out of here. They always have.

But he doesn’t come up with anything. And if her silence and occasional sigh is any indication, she’s running into the same problem.

So they stand in defeated silence until the door scrapes open again.

Bellamy’s eyes snap open. It can’t be dawn yet; it’s not time for their execution. It can’t be. They haven’t thought of anything. He cranes his neck to see who’s just come through the door. He recognizes the Grounder as the one Rya called Walt, his eyes beady and narrow.

Clarke voices his thoughts. Her voice is scratchy from disuse. “It can’t be dawn yet. Have they moved up the execution?”

Trust Clarke to try to get information from their captors. Not shockingly, the Grounder doesn’t reply, just closes the heavy door behind him.

When Walt speaks, it’s filled with hatred. “Skaikru.” He spits the word like he’s tasted something terrible on it and begins to pace slowly behind them.

Bellamy exchanges a wary look with Clarke.

“Your deaths are schedule for morning,” Walt says. His English is heavily accented, like maybe he learned it much later in life. “But I disagree with the fate the others have decided for you.”

Not surprising, Bellamy thinks, remembering how Walt vehemently argued for a more barbaric end for him and Clarke.

“What do you want?” Clarke says guardedly. Always speaking as if she has the throne, even when chained up in the dungeon. Despite their situation, he feels a flicker of pride in his stomach.

“Your people have been nothing but trouble for ours, you know,” Walt goes on as if she hasn’t spoken. “And at last you’ve been exterminated…” He stops pacing behind Clarke, “...almost.”

Bellamy finally notices the long whip in Walt’s hand.

“How does it feel, being the last of your people?” he asks Clarke, but he doesn’t wait for her answer. “Perhaps I could relate somewhat. You see, I am the last of my family.”

Bellamy looks up at his shackles, once again looking for weak spots he knows aren’t there. There’s a feeling of foreboding creeping up in his stomach.

“Thanks to you, Wanheda,” Walt continues. “My wife went to war, and she didn’t come back. Later I heard how they were all _burned alive_.”

Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut and opens them to look at Clarke. She doesn’t look afraid, but stares at the wall in front of her calmly. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly to the wall, and Bellamy’s positive the Grounder doesn’t hear the tremble in her voice under the steel.

Bellamy tugs fruitlessly at his cuffs.

“People like you are always sorry.” Bellamy flinches at those familiar words even though they’re not directed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Walt running the whip through his hand. It’s a cat o’nine tails, with small barbs on the end of each tail, and Walt runs his fingers under each tail. Each time he does it makes Bellamy’s heart rate spike, not for himself, but for the way that Walt eyes Clarke. “I want my revenge against the Sky people. So I am going to kill you, slowly. The deaths you deserve.”

He cracks the whip, not at Clarke, but at the air to the side. Bellamy feels the air whoosh rapidly past his ears, ruffling the hair at the back of his head.

Bellamy’s tugging harder at his cuffs, putting one foot on the wall to get more leverage, but Clarke continues to reply calmly. “Your people won’t be too happy with your selfishness if you kill us before our scheduled execution.”

“Don’t try to manipulate me, Wanheda,” Walt snaps.

“I’m not trying to— _aaagh_!” Walt brings the whip down on Clarke’s back, and her words are cut off by her scream.

Bellamy wrenches at his cuffs automatically, feeling the metal cutting into his flesh. “ _No_!”

Walt walks over to Clarke, and Bellamy watches with horror as he grips the back of Clarke’s grey shirt with both of his hands, ripping it down the middle starting from the bottom, until he gets to her upper back; leaving a long exposed stretch of Clarke’s beautiful, smooth back— that now has a red strip running down diagonally. Bellamy’s heart feels like it’s physically hurting just looking at it.

Clarke, infuriatingly, tries again. “Walt—”

“Don’t talk, Clarke,” Bellamy hisses. She’s only making the Grounder’s anger worse.

“Talk or don’t talk,” Walt says casually, running his whip through his hand again. “It doesn’t matter, this is happening anyway. Scream, if you like. No one will come for you— I was the only one on watch.”

And he brings the whip down again.

Clarke screams again, and it’s cut off with a choked sob. Bellamy feels blood running down his wrists from where he’s straining so hard, but he’s essentially hanging from the ceiling and all he can do is watch.

Walt brings the whip down again.

As Clarke’s knees buckle, feet dragging against the ground, Bellamy is seized by desperation. “Stop!” he roars at Walt, so loudly that Walt pauses in drawing his whip again. “Hurt me instead. I’ve done worse than her. I’ve killed so many more of your people. Just, don’t hurt _her_.”

Walt tilts his head, almost as if considering Bellamy’s words. And for a stupid moment, he has hope that maybe the Grounder will turn to him instead, and let Clarke rest, from where she’s got her forehead leaning against the wall and her eyes squeezed shut tightly.

But after a moment Walt says, “You love her.”

Clarke’s breathing hitches where she’s leaning against the wall, and she shakes her head vehemently. Walt isn’t looking at her though.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything at all. Apparently that’s all the confirmation Walt needs.

“If I break her, I break you,” Walt concludes, and Bellamy knows he’s lost.

“Please,” he whispers anyway, and he’s begging now. “Me instead.”

“Don’t worry, Belomi kom Skaikru. Your turn comes after.” Walt brings the whip down again, but now Clarke bites her lip instead of screaming, and somehow seeing her internalize the pain hurts more than her screams.

Bellamy continues to strain against his shackles “I’m going to kill you,” he says while Walt brings down his whip on Clarke’s back again. He’s trying to shout these words but it ends up a cracked whisper, fractured like how his heart feels watching Clarke’s lip bleed from the pressure of her teeth, watching her blonde hair darken from sweat.

“Just look at me, Clarke,” he whispers quietly. She turns her head, pressing her cheek against the wall. Nods rapidly. Her eyes are filled with tears; when the whip comes down again, they narrow in pain but she keeps her gaze on him, perhaps drawing strength from it. He nods back at her reassuringly, trying to keep his own tears at bay. He needs to be strong for her. “It’s okay, Clarke. Just, look at me, yeah?” His voice breaks a little at the end. She makes a sound, a single sob. It tugs at his heartstrings.

Despite his urging, Clarke’s head drops down at the next hit. His heartstrings snap.

“Clarke, come on, look at me,” he pleads. She doesn’t look back up at him. He feels a warm drop of water trailing down his own cheek and realizes belatedly that he’s lost the battle against his own tears. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he repeats almost emptily at Walt, watching through blurred vision as Clarke’s back bows against the next blow.

“I have no doubt you would,” Walt replies, unfazed. “I’m sure that’s what you’ve done to many of my people in the past.”

Bellamy blinks, suddenly struck with an idea.

As Walt turns back to Clarke, raising his whip again, Bellamy pipes up strongly, “You’re right about that.”

Walt pauses, and Bellamy goes on.

“That’s what I did to your wife,” Bellamy continues. “You think we killed her in a fire?” He laughs, an ugly sound. “That’s cute. Nah, I killed her personally.”

“You’re lying,” Walt says, but he’s lowered the whip involuntarily.

Bellamy shrugs as best as he can while his hands are strung up above him. “I could be. But I remember her now. She had… dark hair, didn’t she? Braids? Wore dark clothing into battle?” These are all, of course, generic things, but Bellamy knows that there’s a part of Walt that wants to believe it, that the man in front of him literally killed his wife and now he finally has a closure, more satisfying than before, ready for the taking front of him. Bellamy knows he’s close to convincing him and licks his lips, tasting salt from sweat and tears. “She used a… sword. No, an ax. No, a spear,” he says, and when he sees Walt’s expression flicker murderously he latches on. “Yeah, a spear. I remember that.” He lets his voice take on a malicious edge. “She screamed when I stabbed her with it.”

Walt’s face darkens and he shoves Clarke’s back, pushing her body into the wall, and advances towards Bellamy instead. Bellamy licks his lips again, adjusting his stance. He’s going to need all his strength for this, he knows.

Clarke finally speaks up. “He’s lying,” she croaks, and there’s a tinge of desperation in it. “He’s just—”

“Shut _up_ , Clarke!” Bellamy cuts her off harshly. But he sees Walt pause again, so Bellamy pulls out his last card. “What was her name again? Your wife’s?” He bares his teeth in a feral grin. “Willa?”

Walt snaps, reaching forward decisively to rip Bellamy’s shirt from the side, and not cleanly like he did with Clarke’s. Clarke cries out softly in the background, but Bellamy barely hears. Satisfied, he drops his head and turns his face back to the wall, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself for the first hit. Walt’s violence has a more emotional edge now, Bellamy can sense it.

And it’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker.

“I changed my mind,” Walt snarls. “ _You_ first.”

Bellamy’s already anticipating the first hit, but he’s not ready anyway for the fiery pain that splinters through his back at the first crack of the cat o’nine tails, hot and searing against his skin. He doesn’t scream, though. He grits his teeth and takes it, barely hearing Walt say:

“And you’re going to suffer as much as I have.”

—

Clarke cannot _believe_ Bellamy’s audacity.

Her back feels like it’s on fire, but it’s nothing compared to how the whip is laying waste to Bellamy’s skin right now. She can tell that Walt is laying that thing down with twice the force he was doing to her.

 _Crack_. Bellamy’s head drops, and his breath whooshes out of him as if it’s been forced out of his lungs.

“I told you he was lying! He’s lying!” she yells fruitlessly at Walt. It’s a lost cause; there’s a deranged look in Walt’s eye. _Crack_. “Stop!” She starts to cry, openly sobbing against her arm as she strains towards Bellamy, but her restraints are too strong, cutting against her wrists. She looks at them, wondering if she breaks her hand maybe she can get out of them. _Crack_. But she can’t concentrate, not with— _Crack_.— in the background.

 _Crack_.

Bellamy doesn’t make a sound, but she sees how his hands, that were first wrapped tightly around the shackles holding him up, are slowly starting to loosen their hold.

 _Crack_.

His hands unfurl, drop and hang limply.

 _Crack_.

His head falls too, and his eyes flutter closed. It frightens her. Not that they close; no, if he was squeezing them tightly shut, she could deal with that. But they’ve fallen closed peacefully as if he’s simply going to sleep.

 _Crack. Crack. Crack_.

Each crack echoes endlessly into the next. Clarke screams in the terrible _agony_ of it, of watching her best friend, her _companion_ , slowly letting go, like Walt is prying Bellamy’s fingers off of life one-by-one, and all Clarke can do is watch his body become more and more ragdoll-like. When one particularly hard hit makes his body sway to the side, she gasps aloud at the sight of the ugly red criss-crosses marring his skin, diagonal and numerous.

“Please!” she screams, and at this point she can’t even think straight at all, can’t even scramble for another manipulative tactic. It’s all too much— _Crack_. “Please, I’ve killed so many more of your people, I set fire to three hundred of them, and I let a bomb drop on one of your villages, and—”

“As much as I like hearing you beg, you’re distracting me. I want to enjoy this. So shut your mouth, Wanheda,” Walt snaps. She continues to sob loudly; she can see blood coating the cat o’nine tails in Walt’s hand. The Grounder pulls a dagger from his belt and presses the tip against Bellamy’s lower back, the kidney region. His body sways a bit at the contact, but he’s otherwise unresponsive. “Or I kill him right now and be done with it.”

Clarke draws in breath and keeps it there, letting her sobs shuddering silently in her chest instead.

Walt pauses and considers her, the tears glazed on her cheeks, her willingness to comply with that command. Almost experimentally, he pushes the knife into Bellamy’s skin; not far, but enough to draw blood that trickles down his hand.

Clarke’s lips open again. “Please.” The word falls broken from her lips, almost unrecognizable in her distress.

There’s a long silence, filled only with breathing: Clarke’s quiet shudders for breath, Bellamy’s shallow ones, and Walt’s steady ones.

“This is fitting,” Walt says, and brings the whip down again. _Crack_. Seemingly unprepared after an irregularly long reprieve, Bellamy jerks and makes a sound, like he’s choking. Clarke flinches like she’s been hit too. Walt goes on, sounding vaguely surprised.

“You love him, too.”

Bellamy’s head comes up a little upon hearing that, and Clarke stares like a deer in headlights.

Her mouth opens and closes a few times. But she finds herself unable to respond, and Bellamy’s turned his face a bit to look at her but she can’t quite return his gaze just now.

Walt smirks. “It should have been obvious from the start. The only people who can love monsters are other monsters.” He reaches forward with his free hand to grab a fistful of Bellamy’s hair and wrench his head back roughly; his eyelids flutter. “Belomi kom Skaikru, you killed my wife. So I’m going to kill yours.”

Bellamy’s eyes open all the way at these words, and when Walt makes his move towards Clarke, that’s when Bellamy makes his own.

As Clarke watches, Bellamy kicks backward with force that she could honestly have never expected from someone who was chained up by the wrists and whipped raw. His back kick is brutal; it catches Walt right under the ribs, lifting him off his feet a bit, and he sails back several feet, and when he gains his footing he stumbles back to the opposite wall.

Oh, he’s done it now, Clarke thinks angrily. Bellamy and his stupid _heroics_.

Walt coughs, clearly not having expected this much fight, and he draws his whip back and lashes Bellamy with the loudest _CRACK_ Clarke’s heard tonight. It tears a guttural sound from his throat on impact.

The whip’s tails unfurl partway over the back of his neck, and his head snaps forward as Clarke screams, “ _Bellamy_!”

There’s a loud silence in its wake.

He’s out cold, she can tell. She looks back at Walt, who’s raising the whip at her now, apparently ready to switch her out, and she braces for it, turning her face back to the wall, and squeezing her eyes shut so that the tears pooled there— trickle out.

She waits for the whip to come down.

And waits.

And waits a moment more.

She slowly opens her eyes, breath still held in her chest, and turns her face back.

Walt stands stiffly behind her, and there’s a sword protruding out of his chest. As she watches, the blade retracts slowly, leaving a gushing, dark wound; a hand behind the man pushes him roughly, and Walt pitches sideways to the ground with a thump. His eyes are wide open, unseeing. His fingers loosen around his whip, and the cat o’nine tails falls out of his hand and rolls to a stop right before touching Bellamy’s foot that drags against the ground.

Clarke finally looks up at their saviour.

It’s Rya.

He watches her shock with solemn eyes and an expression she can’t quite understand behind his beard, so she licks her lips and tries to speak. “Rya—”

He cuts her off. “Walt went against his orders. Your deaths were supposed to be at dawn.” His gaze flickers over to Bellamy’s unmoving form, lingering on his back.

“He’s alive,” Clarke tells Rya firmly. “He’s going to be fine.”

Rya says nothing to that, probably not caring. He walks to the far side of the dungeon and Clarke hears clanking sounds in the shadows, and when he comes back, he’s holding more chains.

She groans. “No, please, please stop, just stop,” she pleads. She can’t take it anymore. She’s tired of being shackled up and hurt. Of watching Bellamy get hurt. She’s fucking exhausted of everything, and she’s starting to feel a numbness steal over her soul.

Rya ignores her and snaps a shackle over her ankle, and then he straightens up with a key in his hand and shoves it into the lock of the manacles holding her wrists up.

A little shocked, Clarke watches as he frees both her hands, and she’s finally not standing on her tiptoes anymore. Rubbing her wrists, she immediately hurries over to Bellamy, feeling the chain on her ankle strain a bit as she does. She can touch him, though; she can cradle his cheek and press her fingers to the side of his neck and make sure he’s alive.

His heart beats under all that golden skin.

Rya walks over and gives Bellamy the same treatment; shackle on his ankle, releasing his wrists. Clarke catches Bellamy around the waist as he falls forward, staggering under his weight, and sinks to the floor slowly, trying to land them gently. His face lolls into her shoulder, and she runs a hand tenderly through his sweaty hair, trying not to look at the marks on his back just yet.

Meanwhile Rya gathers the extra chains and hefts them over his shoulder.

He sees her questioning look and after he’s settled the chains over his shoulder he begins to speak. “Wanheda, you’ve killed many of my people, and so has your husband.”

She doesn’t even bother to correct him. He probably heard Walt say it.

“But…” Rya takes a breath, and Clarke sees conflict pass over his eyes. “You saved my _son_.”

Clarke stares. Bellamy had told her that Rya knew, but it still didn’t prepare her. “Xander,” she whispers. “How is he?”

Rya nods. “He’s healthy. Nourished well, and unharmed,” he says. “was behind a little bit in learning my language, but still. You had my son for a long time. And you kept him safe. For this, regretfully, I am in your debt.”

Clarke can hardly dare to hear it. After everything… could they have finally stumbled upon a bit of _good luck_?

Rya reaches into his robes, and she’s not sure what she expects, but it’s not the small dagger he throws onto the ground, where it bounces and clatters over the uneven stone floor.

“For tomorrow,” he says.

Clarke stares at the knife. It’s rather... tiny. “Will that help us escape whatever fate you’ve decided for us?”

“Unlikely,” Rya says easily.

Clarke sighs.

“But it’s an upper hand that you wouldn’t have otherwise,” he continues. “And if nothing else, being the last two survivors of your people means you are resourceful. I expect you can do something with it. Perhaps quicken your own deaths.”

Great. Very helpful.

Rya’s eyes flicker back to Bellamy, and Clarke is relieved to feel him finally starting to stir against her shoulder.

“Please,” she whispers, turning back to Rya, “can we have— medicine? Water? Bandages? Something?”

Rya stares at her.

She grows impatient. “Just to dress our wounds. Please, we’re both in pain.”

Rya turns and walks out of the room, and she thinks that’s it, that’s he’s just left; but he returns moments later with a grungy looking roll of bandages and a bottle.

“Dull the pain,” he explains. He leans down and places the items down on the floor.

Bellamy lifts his head off her shoulder, and at his movement, she helps him roll off of her and sit up on his own. He doesn’t say anything as he leans back on his hands, even when Clarke puts her hand to his cheek. He just closes his eyes. Rya finally addresses him.

“You killed my brother.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, apparently too tired to defend himself, so Clarke takes up arms. “Because he was about to kill Xander!” she shoots back, outraged.

“Yes,” Rya says. “He was in love with my wife, Polina. I never trusted him with Xander, and now I know just how badly he wanted to ruin us. Still, it was _my_ kill to make, and you took that from me.”

Bellamy coughs, but Clarke can tell it’s a laugh without enough breath behind it. “My bad.”

Rya glares at him. “Know that if I see you again, I will kill you.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything different,” Bellamy replies wryly. Clarke sighs and leans her head against his shoulder. Rya has a lot of faith in them to think that his little dagger will help them escape whatever fate awaits them tomorrow.

Apparently satisfied, Rya leans down and picks up Walt’s body— the dead man’s blood drips in a steady stream off his chest— and finally begins to back out of the dungeon, placing his hand on the door. But he turns back to the pair of them, where Bellamy leans tiredly against Clarke’s shoulder, and her with her chin rested against his head.

“I owe you nothing anymore,” Rya tells Clarke. “Neither of you.”

Clarke nods, feeling rather hollow inside.

The door swings open, and a moment later, it shuts with a clanging sound, one that echoes with finality.

—

Clarke insists on dressing his wounds first. He sits up with his legs outstretched in front of him, and she kneels behind him. They’re going to die in a few hours, but he lets her do it anyway. He’s too tired to fight. He’s too tired to do anything. When she pours the alcohol over his back, he stuffs the remaining shreds of his shirt into his mouth, biting down on them hard because he’s too tired to scream.

Maybe she senses that, because after she’s done cleaning his back and there are tears of pain blurring his vision, she leans forward and presses a kiss against his shoulder, careful to place her lips between the slashes from the whip.

It dulls the pain, somewhat, as does her hands smoothing bandages over his back. He closes his eyes, getting lost in the sensation. If there was one way he’d pick to spend his last night alive, it would definitely be this— her hands, on his skin.

He just wouldn’t have imagined it quite like this, but beggars can’t be choosers.

When she’s done and he feels pleasantly sleepy over the fire that still rages under the skin of his back, he insists on dressing _her_ wounds.

She tries to brush it off, but he’s not tired enough to let the angry welts he can see on her lower back go untreated. She’s acting like she’s not in any pain at all when he knows she has to be hurting just like he is.

She’s _so_ strong.

When he pours the alcohol carefully on her back, she whimpers, and he rubs a hand soothingly against her shoulder. And when he wraps hers— as best as he can, he knows he’s not much good at it— she leans back towards his hands.

Her hair is damp and messy, and he takes it upon himself to comb it through with his fingers, because _that_ he’s good at. He works gently at the knots, tries to pick the dirt out of the blonde, and when he’s combed it as best as he can, he braids it. A fancy fishtail braid he’d learned a lifetime ago, for a little girl with dark bangs who looked at him like he’d hung the moon.

“Thanks,” she whispers when he’s done. He nods silently.

She turns around to face him, stares into his eyes. It’s hard to see her expression properly in the dark, but it looks like she’s thinking hard about something.

He’s not really prepared when she leans forward and kisses him.

It’s a soft kiss of chapped lips against cracked lips, but he finally works up the energy to turn his head away. “Don’t.” The word tears itself from the insides of his throat.

She watches him.

“Don’t do that just because you think we’re gonna die.” His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence.

Clarke doesn’t say anything, which basically confirms his suspicion. He closes his eyes and bows his head. He wants to lean against the wall, but his back hurts too much to do that.

“You think we’re not?” she finally asks him.

“I don’t know.” He’s not sure he cares anymore.

“How do you think they’ll kill us?” she asks him in almost casual tones. “Cutting off a bunch of limbs?”

“Death by a thousand cuts,” he suggests.

“Maybe they’ll hang us, like pirates.”

“Crucifixion is my personal favourite.”

“Yeah?” There’s a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, and he can feel his slightly mirroring it. It’s twisted of them, but that’s who they are now. Then her expression grows serious. “If you got to choose, how’d you like to go?”

“With you,” he replies instantly. It’s not even a question. “If I can’t save you, then I want to go with you.”

She blinks once or twice, and then shakes her head and sighs, like she’s berating herself for even asking the question. Well, if she wasn’t prepared for the truth, she needn’t have asked. He nearly closes his eyes again when he hears her say in a small voice, “Me too.”

His eyes slide over to hers. Her expression is genuine, eyes earnest as can be.

“Remember when… we went to the dropship for the first time, after everything had happened,” Clarke recalls, drawing her legs up to her chest. Her ankle shackle clanks loudly as she does. “And I asked you why we didn’t get a happy ending.”

Of course he remembers. He remembers those conversations all too clearly. He remembers thinking a lot about the noose on the floor of the dropship, and he remembers Clarke watching the poisonous berries in the bushes with a far too wistful look on her face. “I said maybe we didn’t deserve one,” he recalls.

“Well, maybe this is it.”

“What?”

“Maybe this is our happy ending,” she says softly, and her hand creeps out to place itself gently on top of his. “Maybe our happy ending is just that… an ending.”

He considers that idea. It’s not the end he’d have chosen for them, but perhaps it’s fitting. Maybe it’s the most peaceful conclusion their lives are could hope to achieve. “You know what they say about heaven?” he asks her absentmindedly.

Clarke looks at him curiously. “What about it?”

“Well,” Bellamy says slowly, “they say when you die you go to heaven. Up there.” He nods his head up to the ceiling, where above several feet of dirt and stone he’s sure, they would be able to see the late night sky. He wishes very strongly all of a sudden that they would’ve gotten to see it on their last night. She’s silent, so he asks, “You believe that?” He’s not of any opinion himself. Arkers don’t subscribe too much to religions pre-apocalypse; on the Ark, the only faith was Earth, and the reverence their people held for the Ground.

“I don’t know,” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s just easier to believe that there’s somewhere we go that we all meet up again. Like maybe our people finally went back home.”

He puts one arm around her shoulders with a little difficulty. It’s funny that now they see the Ark as home. Because when they all lived there, it was _Earth_ that was home, a home that they spent their entire lives yearning for.

“So you’re saying— if it’s true— maybe we’ll go there and see them all again,” Clarke murmurs.

He thinks about that, and it’s a minute of silence before he shakes his head and says, “No, I don’t think so.”

She looks at him curiously. He keeps his eyes on the grimy stone floor in front of them, but when he speaks again he can’t help the slight tinge of bitterness that creeps into his words.

“There’s a special place for people like us.”

—

They talk about less heavy things afterwards. Clarke runs her fingers along the side of the wall and comments about how she used to draw on the walls of her cell in the Skybox. He tells her about cadet training on the Ark, how bad he was at shooting before he started learning. They pass whatever’s left of the whisky back and forth between them, and it’s not nearly enough to get them drunk but it takes the edge off their pain.

It also makes it easier to accept they’re going to die.

It’s funny, really; how after all this time, after everything, they still cling so desperately to life, even as it’s tried to shake them off time and time again. That after everything, they keep fighting. But maybe, he thinks while he listens to Clarke’s voice, maybe their fight is finally over. Maybe that’s just as well.

And he thinks he’s almost done it, actually— truly accepted it, that they’re going to die, and it’s okay because they’re going to die _together_ , but then Clarke gets a funny look on her face.

He notices it immediately, the way she pauses in the middle of her story and her eyebrows furrow.

“What?” he asks, setting down Rya’s dagger, which he’d been fiddling with while she spoke. She doesn’t respond. “Clarke, what is it?”

She clamps a hand against her mouth.

And then she turns her face away from him, gets on her hands and knees and _hurls_.

It takes him a moment to get over his shock but then he drops the dagger and scrambles over to her— the shackle on his ankle draws taut when he stands over her— to hold her hair out of her face while she vomits out whisky and whatever she’d eaten that day on the stone floor.

And then she takes a deep gasping breath, but before he can ask her _are you okay?_ , she abruptly turns her face away and vomits _again_.

After a minute— he holds her hair away from her neck in his hands while she takes deep breaths, she finally turns to look at him. Her eyes are wide. “Bellamy… oh, god...”

He rips off a wad of bandage and offers it to her to wipe her mouth, and she accepts it slowly with shaking hands. Her eyes trained to the ground for a long moment and it scares her a little bit, so he cups her cheeks with his hands and brings her gaze up to his.

When their eyes meet, he sees how wide hers are. She swallows thickly.

“I think… I’m pregnant.”

He stares. It all clicks into place. Morning sickness. That’s what this is. He can’t get his throat to work right then, and apparently neither can she, because now they are just gaping at each other, and, well.

Just like that, their whole world changes.

Again.

_— END PART TWO —_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a cliffhanger hoe I know, and I’m sorry (sort of). Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this installment. 
> 
> All comments will be, ah, _thoroughly_ appreciated. To put it lightly!! ;D
> 
> @wellsjahasghost on tumblr


	3. the sun must set to rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what I _really_ want?”
> 
> “I’m listening.”
> 
> “I want to go someplace with you where our names are meaningless,” she says, lips brushing his ear and sending a chill through him. “Where nobody cares who we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. "um you said this fic was going to be 3 parts..." Well, it IS still three parts. But listen!!. I finished part three and it was 50k+, which I 100% recognize is extremely Extra(TM). So anyways I was advised that I should split it-- here is part 3a. 3b will follow shortly, as soon as the editing is done, hopefully in a few days.
> 
> I hope you like where this story goes. Honestly I'm not sure how I feel about it, but statistically it's pretty certain that _someone_ will enjoy it, so. There's that, I guess!

“Are you sure?” is the first thing he says, voice raspy.

It strikes her as a rather absurd question. “Of course I’m not sure,” she mutters. They’ve both risen to their feet involuntarily, staring at each other. “I don’t have a pregnancy test in my hand, do I?”

Undeterred by her tone, Bellamy reaches out and grazes his hands down her arms. He doesn’t seem to notice the goosebumps he raises. “Have you been… tired lately? Sore?”

“I—” She shakes her head and swallows. “I don’t know, Bellamy. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Minor aches and pains haven’t really registered with me.”

“But you _feel_ it,” he says, searching her eyes. His voice is sure. “Don’t you?”

He’s right— she feels it. There’s a part of her that just feels like it _knows_. That she threw up not from the emotional distress, or something she _ate_ , but because her body is enacting some ancient mechanism to protect her baby from harm.

Her _baby_.

“Yes.” Her voice is an awestruck whisper.

He blinks heavily, dazed as if his entire world has been shaken. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. She’s thinking it too.

She’s suddenly thinking about the most efficient way to stab someone with a dagger, and how well the leftover bandages might be used to gag a Grounder, and if Rya left any chains that could be used as weapons in this dungeon.

She’s thinking about escape because suddenly the alternative isn’t a choice anymore.

He summarizes her thoughts. “We have to get out of here.”

In unison, they turn back to their surroundings. There’s a part of Clarke still stuck on the shock of it all, but she brushes it to the side for the time being. Bellamy’s doing the same.

“Think we can do something with the bandages?” he asks her, scooping them up.

She doesn’t answer him, still concentrated on her own search. There’s not much else with them here; Clarke doesn’t know how effective the whisky bottle might be in combat.

But she’s heavily considering the probability of the Grounders noticing a bottle tucked under her cleavage when they hear voices from just outside the door.

Clarke instantly bends down and grabs Rya’s dagger off the floor, tucking it into her sleeve. “Think we can fight through them?”

“That depends on how many there are,” he replies grimly, but like Clarke, he’s assumed a wider fighting stance.

The heavy metal door burst open and the two of them tense.

But there’s no possibility for it. Grounders come streaming in. They’re not just two or three, like Clarke was expecting— rather, a small army of them seem to have come to escort them to their execution.

Smart of them, really.

Bellamy looks at Clarke, and she looks back with a defeated sigh. Maybe this isn’t their opportunity. Not yet. 

The Grounders descend upon them immediately, strangers she hasn’t seen before this, all wearing harsh expressions under their layers. Several of them surround her and one twists her arms painfully behind her back, so hard she makes an involuntary sound.

“Hey,” Bellamy barks at them even though he’s getting the same treatment. “Easy.”

She shakes her head at him, and the last thing she sees is his torn expression before her vision is obscured by a heavy, foul-smelling black cloth wrapped tightly around her head, and a gag shoved inside her mouth.

She feels her ankle being unshackled, and her hands tied with rope. Then they’re paraded out of the room.

Clarke still has her tiny dagger up her sleeve, but she doesn’t dare to try to use it, not while there are so many of them. She keeps her arm angled so that where she’s tucked the dagger isn’t displayed on the outside. She can’t afford to show her last advantage.

Yet.

She feels her footsteps taking her up a heavily inclined slope, and then the dankness of the air underground is replaced from her lungs all at once with the sweet, light scent of fresh air. She can see just the faintest bit of light creeping through her blindfold, making her think it must be sunny out. Birds chirp merrily in the distance, grasses rustle and brush against her ankles, and a breeze stirs her hair. It sounds like the perfect day to live.

Then she’s shoved forward. “Move,” someone barks in Trigedasleng.

They walk for what feels like hours more. She spends the whole time praying that her knife won’t slip out of her sleeve, that nobody will notice it’s faint outline against the fabric of her shirt. Her luck holds, miraculously.

At some point, the sounds of nature thrumming against her eardrums is slowly overtaken and replaced with the approaching sound of a large crowd.

Her footsteps hesitate at this new information, but she’s immediately shoved roughly forward again. She resumes her footsteps, but this time with her heart thumping madly in her ears. WIth a blindfold on, she can’t even see Bellamy; she doesn’t have the luxury of meeting his calm, dark gaze to soothe her nerves. It hits her that she’s walking blind into her own execution... and she’s scared out of her _mind_.

Suddenly the roar of the crowd increases in volume all at once, and the blindfold is untied and wrenched away from her face. Then the sun is in her eyes, too bright and all consuming for someone who’s been underground for the last many hours; she squints, ducking her head away before she adjusts enough to look up.

The first thing she does is look for Bellamy. He’s there too, and she relaxes slightly from the sight of him standing next to her and blinking rapidly in disorientation, same as her. An overwhelming sense of relief takes precedence right then over anything else she’s feeling. 

Their eyes connect and since they’re still gagged, he cocks his head slightly, like _you okay_? She nods and continues to examine him for further injuries, but he shakes his head. He looks to be fine, given the circumstances, and they’ve apparently given him a shirt to wear for his execution since his other got shredded— a gray one. How very considerate.

With that in mind, she turns her face to their surroundings.

Oh, she thinks. _Oh_.

They’ve set foot into an arena of sorts; it looks like what might have been a small sports stadium in an old life. The stands are…. Filled with people. She’s honestly shocked with how many there are— they aren’t quite filling the seats to a brim, but there are so many _more_ Grounders here than she even thought existed in these parts anymore.

“Surprised?” a voice comes from behind her. She recognizes it immediately at Rya’s. “There may not be any semblance of organization left in our ranks, but there are still many of us who would like to see your deaths. And we can reunite for that purpose.”

She’d like to tell him exactly what she thinks about the only unifying cause among them being the deaths of another, but she’s gagged. So she just turns around to glare. But then she sees Xander in Rya’s arms.

Xander.

She feels her eyes widen fractionally. Xander’s asleep, nose nestled into his father’s chest, but it’s _him_. He’s so much bigger than the last time she saw him.

She wonders, right then, if the child would even recognize her after all this time, and she feels a pang in her chest.

She brings her gaze back up to Rya’s eyes, and she can tell by his thoughtful expression that he’s seen every emotion that’s flit through her in the last few seconds.

She lifts her chin defiantly and turns away, back to the field they’re apparently supposed to die in.

It’s not a flat field anymore, though— it’s overgrown, uneven terrain with trees and bushes and jutting rocks, some so high that she can’t see the other side. It’s then that she notices that the field itself is entirely enclosed by metal bars.

Her eyes lift to the sky, and, yup, it’s a huge _cage_.

“I’m sure you’ve been wondering about the exact nature of your executions,” Rya says behind her. She feels a heavy feeling creeping up in her stomach. “We argued about it for the longest time, but in the end we realized that any death at our hands wouldn’t satisfy everyone. Not when _everyone_ has a stake in this execution.”

Clarke thinks she feels the ground shake under her feet, or maybe it’s just her imagination.

“We decided instead on an impersonal death,” Rya continues. “One that everyone would be able to watch, and nobody would be able to squabble over.”

It’s definitely not her imagination when she hears an ear-splitting, terrifying, and familiar _roar_.

“Death by Pauna,” Rya finishes quietly.

She thinks there’s maybe the tiniest tinge of regret colouring his voice, but if he says anything else after that, she doesn’t hear.

The trees in the cage are shaking slightly, and when the gigantic monster that she’s already faced twice before emerges from where it was hiding, she feels a chill go down her spine.

“It’s time,” one of the Grounders says, swinging open a small door on the side of the cage, and then they’re being ushered forward again. This time, Clarke digs her heels in, tries to kick back at who’s pushing her, and she can distantly hear Bellamy putting up a similar struggle.

She stops struggling when she’s punched in the stomach. As she bends over, wheezing, she hears Bellamy snarl, and when she looks up he looks positively ferocious. It takes her a moment to remember that she’s pregnant, and she goes still, looking down at her own abdomen and struggling not to panic suddenly.

One hit wouldn’t hurt her baby, would it? Not this early?

Their combined hesitation is enough. Together, they’re shoved through the doorway, and as Bellamy scrambles up from the ground, it swings shut with a clanging sound.

He slams his body against the door, but the Grounders on the other side are already chaining a heavy lock onto it. Clarke slowly clambers to her feet.

The gorilla— Pauna, she supposes— hasn’t actually noticed them yet, but she has a feeling that’s going to change very quickly.

The noise in the stadium has reached deafening levels, but she’s still not paying it any attention. She backs away from the bars, keeping her eyes on Pauna as the giant continues to pick around in the grass beyond the treeline. At the same time, she finally lets Rya’s dagger fall from her sleeve and into her hand.

She saws at the thick ropes binding her hands together as fast as she can while keeping herself facing the bars so that the Grounders won’t see what she’s doing.

Bellamy has stopped hitting the door of the cage and is watching her thoughtfully; she thinks he knows exactly what she’s doing.

For once, luck is on her side and she doesn’t drop the knife. It’s wickedly sharp, and the ropes finally loosen around her wrists.

The ropes fall to the ground, and Bellamy strides forward so she can undo his too.

As she hacks a little more efficiently at his restraints with both her hands freed, she hears some of the Grounders who were part of their escort yelling beyond the bars in Trigedasleng.

“Where did she get a knife?”

“Open the cage, we have to retie them!”

“No, we don’t,” she hears Rya’s voice cut them off in bored sort of tones. “Do you really think they’ll be able to escape Pauna just because they can throw rocks at her now?” In some distant part of her mind, Clarke wonders if Rya has faith in them, or if he actually does think they’re already dead. She really can’t decide which is the more likely option.

When Bellamy’s hands are free, they both pull the gags out of their mouths. The entire exchange has taken only a few seconds, and there’s no time at all for them to talk because right then, Pauna looks over and finally notices them.

Bellamy curses under his breath. Clarke gulps. Somehow, their hands reach out and find each other, clasping on firmly for a moment and both squeezing. It’s like she can feel his strength fill her own body, and she takes a deep breath. Simultaneously, they let go.

Pauna roars at them, and begins to climb one of the higher up rock formations. Clarke realizes she’s going to jump at them.

Not terrifying at all. “How many times am I going to have to deal with this thing?” she mutters at Bellamy, gripping her knife a little tighter.

“Never, after we kill it,” he replies, and he says it with such certainty that she looks back at him. His expression is set, like he’s just... _decided_ that they’re going to get out of here. “Third time’s the charm, right?” he offers her a small, tight half-smile.

She returns it with a weak one of her own. Neither of them have a plan, and yet her determination hasn’t left her. “Let’s hope.”

Then Pauna leaps at them, the crowd roars louder than ever, and that’s the last conversation they have for a while.

They spend the good part of the next ten minutes just scrambling away as best they can. The nice thing about having so much foliage in the cage with them is that when they run, they’re not easy pickings for the monster out for their heads. The bad thing is that Pauna is crushing down the trees at an alarming rate, leaving them less and less hiding space.

At some point, Bellamy gets caught under one of the falling trees and she skids to a stop, helping him lift the branches off himself so they can take off again. But it’s too late— Pauna’s getting too close, and they have no choice but to run in the direction that they’re being crowded into.

“Up there!” Bellamy shouts, pointing, and they begin to scramble up the rock formation near the wall of the cage. As she does, Clarke feels rather than sees an arrow whiz by her head.

Turning her face towards the crowd watching on the other side of the bars, she realizes being so close to the wall has made them vulnerable to other threats, as well.

“Bellamy, watch out,” she calls, cringing to avoid a spinning dagger one has thrown through the bars of the cage. Dammit, they’re all good shots. “They’re throwing things at us from the stands.”

He curses again and they climb faster.

Once they get to the top, it becomes apparent that Pauna is unable to follow up this particular obstacle— the handholds they used to climb are too small for her, and she keeps slipping down. All she can do is roar from bellow.

So Clarke and Bellamy get to catch their breath. “What now?” Bellamy asks her.

Clarke shakes her head helplessly. She doesn’t know. The dagger in her hand doesn’t feel like it’ll do much damage to the monster, even under the assumption that she’ll be able to get close enough to use it. 

Pauna rises off her haunches, and Clarke hadn’t realized til now how big the thing had gotten since she and Lexa had had to fight it that very first time. It’s been hunched over due to the low roof of the cage this entire time. It’s so big that when it reaches full height and jumps experimentally, it hits the roof of the cage, causing the entire thing to shake and rock.

Wait. Why is it rocking?

She looks down, down down at the ground to where the bars descend to the earth, and realizes for the first time that the cage isn’t bolted into the ground. 

Inspiration strikes her— and at the same time Pauna takes that moment to launch herself off the ground and at them, and Clarke and Bellamy automatically scatter to the sides.

Clarke skids down one side of the rock face and Bellamy down the other, but not before she sees the cage lift infinitesimally off the ground from Pauna’s arm hitting the roof of it.

Pauna scrambles for purchase on the rock formation, but slides down. In the meantime, Clarke grabs Bellamy’s arm. “Bellamy!” she shouts at his face, even though they’re standing right next to each other; it’s a product of adrenaline. “The cage isn’t bolted to the ground. We can _tip it over,_ and—.”

She watches understanding dawn in his eyes. “And Grounders on the menu, instead of us,” he says slowly. “I like it.” He flashes a rakish sort of grin at her, and even right now, in the midst of danger, it makes her heart flip over a bit. 

They have a heated debate over which one of them will do what, but eventually Bellamy relents, although Clarke highly suspects he does because he does actually think his job is more dangerous.

And then while she takes off, Bellamy scoops a rock from the ground and throws it at Pauna, making it snarl and turn his way.

Clarke climbs back up the rock formation, knife in between her teeth, while he does this. She has to force herself not to turn her head at every _ooh_ from the audience. Bellamy is supposed to be keeping Pauna on the other side of the cage until Clarke is ready, and that means he’s in close with her. But she can’t afford to worry about that.

She’s only halfway up when she hears the audience rise in volume all at once. Heart in her throat, she turns, and sees Bellamy on the ground.

She almost drops the knife— he’s clearly hurt, but there’s no time to do anything but watch as Pauna descends on him.

He rolls out of the way of her claws just in time and gets to his feet. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief.

Bellamy turns his head towards her and sees her looking. He cocks his head, like, _get back to work_.

She sends a watery smile in his direction; he’s full of bravado but exhaustion under the surface.

The thought is sudden and fervent: God, she just wants a moment to _talk_ to him.

 _After this_ , she thinks to herself, turning back to her task. After this, when they get out of here, she can talk to him all she wants for the rest of her life. 

With new resolve, she resumes her climb. 

_After this_.

She’s almost at the top.

Maybe she’ll even tell him she loves him, one day.

Her foot slips on a rock, but she manages to correct herself in time. The thought came unbidden into her head, but… it’s true. It’s so, so fucking true, and it suddenly hurts her that she’s never actually said that to him before. She suddenly wants nothing more than to turn her head and shout it at him here at this stadium: _I love you_!

But no. _After_ this.

Having clambered to the top of the rock formation, she begins to climb the bars of the cage. They’re not very smooth bars, which makes it easier for her to grip. But after only a few feet, her arms are already starting to shake from exertion.

She’s fucking tired, and her muscles are burning.

 _After this_ , she chants to herself, and slowly inches herself up again. _After this_.

She repeats it to herself like a mantra until she’s reached the corner of the cage, and she’s clinging to the hinge between the wall and roof of it. This is it; this is where she wanted to be. The rock formation makes it impossible for Pauna to come right up to the wall of the cage, but she’s in the corner, so Pauna can’t just swipe her hand up to get at her.

No, she has to _jump_.

“Hey!” Clarke screams, waving her arms at Pauna. The gorilla is still chasing Bellamy around. It’s a sight that might seem almost comical if not for the fact that the prospect of Bellamy being squashed underfoot is the least funny thought to ever cross her mind.

Her voice gets lost in the crowd, and she shouts again, willing Bellamy to hear.

He looks in her direction and begins to run towards her, leading the monster their way.

Pauna’s enraged at this point, with the way Bellamy’s been playing with her for the past few minutes, and as soon as she catches sight of Clarke, she’s charging. Clarke braces herself.

Pauna leaps, but her first jump doesn’t get her anywhere close to the wall— her stomach hits the rock face, and she falls to the ground. Clarke clings to the bars as the cage shakes.

Pauna charges again, and this time the beast’s claws swipe at a place only several meters away from Clarke’s face.

Clarke’s fingers tighten on the metal. She’s dead sure it’s the next one.

Pauna leaps again full force, and this time, Clarke lets go of the bars and drops.

Pauna’s shoulder connects with the corner of the cage, the same place Clarke had been milliseconds ago, but now Clarke is falling down the rock face, in an ungainly mess. But she hears what she wanted to hear.

The cage rocks precariously onto one side, and with the full force of Pauna’s weight and rage against it, it tips over completely.

Clarke manages to gain her bearings halfway down the rock formation, enough to slide down the rest of the way. When she does, Bellamy is there trying to catch her, touching her elbow, yelling in her ear, and suddenly all the sound in the world assaults her ears.

“Clarke! Get up!” he’s yelling at her, tugging her up by the arms. She’s suddenly aware of the sound of screaming all around them, and finally lifts her head.

The cage is now standing on the wall that Pauna tipped, but the monster is confused, clumsily grappling with the walls of the cage, and then it tips over onto its roof completely with Pauna’s weight sitting behind it, crashing into the stands. Metal crumples easily, and people scatter. Pauna roars in frustration.

“We have to go,” Bellamy says into her ear, and finally she works up the strength to climb to her feet and then they’re running, running, running.

They make it all the way to treeline before anyone notices them; they’re all occupied trying to escape Pauna, enraged and now with a veritable feast in front of her.

But Bellamy stops, and Clarke stops with him. “Bellamy, let’s go,” she cries. She doesn’t know _where_ they’re going to go, all she knows is they have to get out of here. Some of the Grounders have spotted them escaping, and are approaching rapidly as well, likely with grisly deaths in mind for the two of them.

“Xander,” is all Bellamy says hoarsely, and she follows his gaze only to see Pauna closing in on Rya and a sleeping Xander near the stands close to them.

She’s horrified— Rya’s backing up, looking for exits, but Pauna has them blocked in. “No,” she says, and feels herself take an involuntary step forward. “Not Xander.”

Bellamy curses and snatches the knife out of her hand. “I’m going to regret this.” But he does it anyway.

He runs forward and throws the knife with unerring accuracy.

It plants itself in Pauna’s leg, and the beast roars, successfully distracted. It turns and spots them, and it’s _just_ like last time, Clarke swears.

Bellamy seizes Clarke’s arm. “Run.”

They run.

—

It’s just like last time, indeed.

Except instead of just Pauna crashing after them, there are Grounders hunting them too.

They break out of the trees and find themselves running across a clearing. But it’s one Bellamy instantly recognizes as the one that he shot Xander’s uncle in.

Which means they’re actually quite close to the ALIE house.

He suddenly has a terribly stupid idea.

He changes direction a little bit, and Clarke pants after him. “Where are you—”

“Home,” he breathes out, and neither of them have the air in their lungs to have a proper conversation while running for their lives, but he hears her huff in confusion.

They’re going a little too slow for his liking, and when the house comes into view, Pauna finally pounces on them.

He sees the shadow of her casting long over him and Clarke, and he instinctively jumps at Clarke, pushing them both out of the way of the beast.

The gorilla lands heavily, then roars in anger as it realizes that it’s been evaded once again. He and Clarke scramble up again, and then they’re leaping the gate into their front garden and frantically opening the doors as Pauna lunges at them.

They stumble inside, and Pauna’s head gets stuck in the doors, snapping and growling. Bellamy can see the saliva dripping from her teeth, the angry furrow of her brow. She slams her shoulders against the walls of the house; the chandelier on the ceiling swings wildly and Bellamy’s sure he feels the foundation shake.

“Bellamy, what—” Clarke begins helplessly.

He grabs her hand. “Come on. There’s not much time.” They run down the long gleaming hall; Bellamy rips his old Ark-issued jacket from the hanger as they go. There’s no time for much else. As they pass a window, he sees Grounders standing by the highway, the line that surrounds the property.

From the way they look like they’re arguing amongst themselves, he doesn’t think that superstition will be an effective protective barrier anymore.

When he ushers her down the steps into the garage, her eyes widen in understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says, tossing a look up the stairs. He hears Pauna roaring again, and then there’s a terrible loud splintering. The house shakes again. The monster’s made it inside the house. Bellamy doesn’t want to think about what a mess the front of the mansion must look like right now. 

He hears shouts, drawing in closer; the Grounders have gotten over their superstition after all, it seems.

The house shakes again.

Clarke sighs when she hears glass shattering. “That’ll be the flower vases.”

There’s an inkling of sadness in her voice at this seemingly insignificant thing, but he understands. This house isn’t just a shell of ALIE anymore; to the two of them, it’s been a stable home for a long time. They’ve made memories here— _good_ ones. He doesn’t want to let go of it either.

But they don’t really have a choice, do they?

He shakes his head abruptly and crosses the garage floor to where the motorbike is still leaning against the wall.

“So it works now?” Clarke asks urgently.

“It better,” Bellamy replies darkly. The engine works, but he’s never actually had the chance to take it for a test ride because of the risk of being seen out in the open. He pulls it towards the garage door and presses the button for the garage door to open. The house shakes again, and this time dust and debris fall from the roof.

As the bright, late morning sun begins to filter in, Clarke runs over to the section of wall that houses the guns and fiddles with the glass casing housing the red button that they’d discovered so many months ago.

“It’s not opening,” Clarke cries.

Bellamy hears voices drawing closer inside the house and feels his heart rate kicking up even more. “Let me try.” In a few strides, he’s at her side, wrenching the gun vault open and selecting one at random. He swings it shut and slams the butt of the gun at the glass casing. The button presses inward, and the glass shatters around their feet.

They wait with bated breath, but nothing seems to happen. No indication of anything. For a moment all they hear is the commotion upstairs inside their house as the Grounders and Pauna wreak havoc, and then…

The calm, clear voice of ALIE rings through not only the garage, but resounds through the entire house. “Code red, initiated. Awaiting final confirmation.”

“Final _confirmation_?” Clarke yells desperately at the roof, as though it will answer. “Consider it fucking confirmed! We’re about to die here!”

“I don’t think it responds to voice commands anymore, Clarke,” Bellamy tells her, although his lips are fighting a smile. “There’s got to be another button around here. Somewhere.”

“Or a lever,” Clarke suggests quietly.

“Yeah, I guess it could be—” He stops and turns to where she’s staring, and fuck. She’s right. On the wall opposite of the open garage door, there’s a red lever, half-hidden from view by a pile of garden hosing.

Clarke crosses over to it at the same time that the door to the house bursts open and a Grounder comes inside. He’s staring at them a split second before Bellamy raises his gun and shoots him instinctively, twice in the head.

The gunshots are unfortunately loud, loud enough that the noise downstairs pauses for a brief moment.

Dammit. They’ve been found out. Bellamy steps over the Grounder’s body and kicks the door closed again, this time clicking in both the locks and shoving a stool under the doorknob. “I hope you’ve got that figured out, Clarke,” he calls, but when he turns to her she’s just staring wide-eyed at the lever.

“Clarke, what are you waiting for,” he says impatiently. “Pull the damn thing and let’s get out of here.”

“Bellamy,” she says quietly. “How fast is the motorbike?”

“Not a sports car,” he frowns. “But it’ll have to do.”

“Is it fast enough to get us out of the blast radius in ten seconds?” she asks him. He blinks at her, and she points to the tiny written instructions on the lever. “It says there’s a ten second delay.”

Bellamy grits his teeth. Ten _seconds_? How could that be enough time to get away from the blast radius in time? It seems that ALIE’s found a way to screw them over again. 

“Bellamy?” She sounds scared.

He makes a decision within the second, and tells her, “Get on the bike. I’ll do it.”

She does what he says, swinging her leg over the seat, and turns her head. He comes up behind her and points. “Throttle on right handlebar. Front brake, too. Gear control on left handlebar.” She nods frantically. “Okay. So—” she watches as he crosses back to the gun vault and grabs several clips and another rifle. “Ten seconds is enough time?” She sounds dubious.

“No.”

“No?” she echoes, and then it seems to dawn on her. “Bellamy, you’re not playing hero, not this time—”

He interrupts her. “I’m going to stay behind and pull the lever. You go.”

“To hell with that!” She shouts predictably, and now she’s getting off the bike. Bellamy hears a body slam against the door he’s locked, and the stool under the handle rattles. He casts it a quick glance. They don’t have much time. “I’m not leaving without you.”

“Clarke, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid!”

He snaps. “Clarke, you’re pregnant.” He lets himself think about it for the first time in a while, and he feels a pang inside his stomach somewhere. He’s going to be a father, but he’s... never going to see it happen. “Get out of here, if not for your own sake, then for our _baby_.”

“You’d leave your child without a father?” she asks him coldly. They’re facing off, glaring at each other, while the door (thankfully, a strong metal one) takes a beating from the other side.

Meanwhile, there’s a Grounder running at them from the open garage door, apparently having finally seen them, and Bellamy raises his arm and shoots him without looking. “Better without a father then _dead_. Can you stop being so stubborn for once and realize this is the only way?” Desperation leeches into his words. “It’s _okay_ , Clarke. You’ll be okay. You’re strong.” The strongest person he’s ever known. If there’s anybody who could survive on their own, it’s her. He doesn’t even have a doubt.

But she’s been shaking her head the entire time he’s speaking. She steps toward him, and jabs a finger at his chest with surprising force. “I’m not,” she tells him, and there are tears in her eyes. “I’m not strong enough to live without you.” He blinks, taken aback.

“You are.”

She acts as if he hadn’t spoken. “Maybe it’s selfish but I don’t care. We’re all going together, or _we’re not going at all_.”

There’s an iron will behind her last few words, and Bellamy knows— helplessly— that he’s not going to win this fight. He glares at her with renewed frustration. “Then what’s your plan,” he grits out.

She looks at a loss for a moment, eyes straying away from him and towards the lever, and then her face lights up.

“Plan?” he asks, whipping his head back to the lever, still covered by garden hose someone’s carelessly left there a lifetime ago.

“A really stupid one.” She grins.

That’s their specialty.

—

The door to the house bursts open at the same time that Clarke revs the bike.

Bellamy, sitting behind her on the bike, shoots the first to come through. “Ready?”

“If you are.”

Bellamy adjusts his hold on the garden hose wrapped into a coil on his arm. The other end of it is tied to the lever on the side of the garage. “Just go,” he says, because he’s never going to be ready, not for something as ridiculous as this _hose_ around his arm.

The bike revs to life again, and then they’re off, whizzing out of the cool darkness of the garage and into the brutal humidity and sun outside.

Bellamy shoots at a few with his handgun, but then Clarke is going too fast so he has to tuck the gun away and hold onto her with his free arm. The hosing around his arm unwinds at a breakneck pace, so that they’re only ten seconds onto the highway before it takes a mighty tug— he pulls with all his strength, feels the thing go taut and inside the garage, the lever’s yanked down— and he’s almost wrenched off the bike by the hose now that it’s all been let it out, and his reflexes aren’t quite quick enough.

But then Clarke’s hand, reaching behind her, grabs onto his sleeve and yanks him back, so he has enough time to let go of it. He clambers back on fully behind Clarke, watching the hose fall haphazardly into the grass like a thrashing snake.

“Ten more seconds,” he says into her ear, eyeing the Grounders who have now burst into the garage.

The bike goes a little roughly onto the highway, but once they’re there, it’s smooth sailing down that stretch of road that seems to go on forever.

He waits with bated breath, looking over his shoulder and hoping, _hoping_ that the ten extra seconds this stupid idea gave them would be the difference between life and death.

The house gets smaller and smaller in his view, and he’s a little startled to see it partly destroyed on one end. No doubt the work of Pauna, still raging her way through the house.

As soon as he sees the windows inside the house start to light up unnaturally, he turns his face away and presses it into Clarke’s hair instead.

The boom of the explosion is far too loud. Only a moment later, he feels the searing heat of it at his back, and can see debris falling around them in his peripheral vision. He rises on his feet a little bit, trying to cover more of Clarke with his own body, so that anything that comes flying at them from the explosion will hit him instead of her.

Then he counts to twenty, and only then does he turn his face to look back.

He finds himself staring.

“What does it look like back there?” Clarke asks almost lightly. Her eyes are still fixed on the road, fingers clutching the handlebars in a death grip.

He opens his mouth, tries to choose some words apt enough to explain the destruction he sees. Way back when the Dropship’s engines went off and killed the army of Grounders in their first fight against them, he wasn’t there (he’d be dead if he was), but he imagines it looked something like this.

He makes his throat work and finally finds the right words to repeat. “Let’s just say… barbequed Grounders.”

She’s silent a moment. “And the house?”

“Gone.” That feels like an understatement. He’s pretty sure there’s a crater, to be honest. Nothing even looks to be moving over there, except for the flickering tongues of steady fire. It looks like _death_. ALIE was devastatingly thorough about her failsafe protocols.

He shakes his head and turns back forward, wrapping both of his arms more securely around Clarke’s waist. He doesn’t look back again. 

Clarke’s not slowing down; the countryside is zooming past them in a blur, but he figures she just wants to get as far away as possible.

“Bellamy?” she says after a minute.

“Yeah.” Her hair is flying into his face, and he pushes it to the side.

“You know how you said you were trying to fix the jammed acceleration thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It didn’t work.” She starts laughing, letting go of the throttle pointedly to show that it’s sticking. The motorbike is still going at the same speed that she’d started at.

He peeks over her shoulder and feels his own lips twitch. “Sorry I’m not _Raven_. Give me a break.”

“I wish you’d give me a brake, too,” Clarke says in front of him, and then she’s tossing her head back in peals of laughter at her own pun. He snorts, and he tries to hold it in, but in the end he can’t help but join in.

He laughs into her shoulder, and she giggles with her face turned to the sun, and they keep hurtling down this long, endless stretch of highway without a care in the world. They’re so overwhelmed with the idea that they survived— _again—_ that it won’t occur to Bellamy until much later that, for the first time, they mentioned Raven’s name in a conversation that ended in _laughter_.

—

Eventually, the motorbike runs out of power, and it peeters to a pathetic stop in the middle of the highway. They’ve just travelled at least an hour or two on it, but the road doesn’t seem to be showing any sign of stopping. It’s broken at parts, bumpy; a few times they’ve found themselves riding on rough terrain for a few seconds before the road resumes again, but it’s still mostly there. Clarke wonders to herself how far it goes.

In the meanwhile, though, Clarke practically collapses off the bike and crawls off the road into the cool, dewy grass. A deep-seated exhaustion is settling into her bones. Bellamy sets the bike to charge as she flops to the ground and sighs. It’s late afternoon, and the sun setting the sky alight to a pre-evening gold. The ground is more or less even here, like a prairie, so she can see extensively in every direction. It’s a beautiful sight.

She simply breathes in and out a few times, and Bellamy finally comes to join her where she’s sitting, legs stretched out, in the long, wild grass.

They don’t speak for a long moment, and then Clarke says, “So. I’m pregnant.” The words are supposed to be light in tone, but she’s suddenly obsessed with the way they come out of her mouth. She repeats them, this time a little more awestruck. “I’m _pregnant_.” She places a hand over her own stomach and looks at him quickly, with an open-mouthed smile.

His eyes are on where she’s placed her hand, and she sees his own hands twitch, as if he wants to touch her but stops himself in time. It confuses her, because since when have they ever been conservative in their physical intimacy?

“You can touch me, you know,” she tells him. “It’s not like I have a baby bump or anything, but I know you want to.” He still doesn’t move, so she rolls her eyes, grabs his hand and puts it on her instead.

His hand is huge, spanning most of her stomach, and the way he runs his palm over the area is exceedingly gentle. But he pulls his hand away immediately after, and she frowns.

“Bellamy?”

His eyes are still cast down, but they flicker up to meet hers when she says his name. He looks terribly conflicted. “I— wasn’t sure if I was allowed— if it was okay, for me to touch you.”

It takes her another moment to understand, and then she just feels horrible. He’s still under this impression that because she’s pregnant now, that’s the end of whatever they had.

And that might have been the plan, so many months ago, but Clarke knows that’s not what she wants anymore. What she wants now, overwhelmingly, more than anything else, is to tell him she _loves_ him. Especially when he’s looking at her like that. Like he’s helplessly falling into her eyes and can’t seem to stop himself.

God, he needs to know she does the same.

She leans forward to cup his face with both her hands, and she says, “Bellamy, of course you can touch me,” she tells him firmly. “I _want_ you to touch me. Because I…” She trails off, taking a deep breath, and she sees the moment he realizes what she’s about to say; she sees it in the way his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes get wider and his lips part.

It should be easy, really. To open her mouth and say those words, but it’s really not. _I love you_ , she wants to say. 

But in her head it sounds more like a death sentence.

She swallows thickly, and he’s watching her as if enraptured with the sight while she struggles with herself. “Bellamy, I— I—” but her throat keeps getting stuck, and all at once, to her horror, she feels tears pricking at her eyes.

He must see them too, because then he’s shaking his head, wrapping his hands loosely around her wrists. “It’s okay,” he reassures. His eyes are still wide. “You— you don’t have to say that.”

“I do,” she tells him angrily, and her hands fall from his face to his jacket, where she yanks the collar with frustration at herself. “You deserve at least that from me. I need to say it.” She takes a breath, closes her eyes and tells herself: _He’s not going to die just because you love him_.

Bellamy’s voice cuts across her internal chant. “You don’t have to,” he repeats softly.

“I _want_ to,” she snaps. 

He’s still looking at her in an odd way. His voice is soft. “Clarke, the only thing _I_ want is the truth.” 

God, he’s still not getting it. “It _is_ the truth! I’m not just saying this, I—” She cuts herself off again, trying to breathe steadily.

His hands fall to her shoulders, soothing. “Shh.”

But she clings to him, furious with herself, because he _needs_ to know. “Bellamy, it’s true. It’s been true for a long time, even before— everything— happened to everyone else. You’ve always been my— the most important person to me.”

His eyes are wider than ever before, and he swallows slowly.

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve _always—_ ”

He cuts her off with a kiss.

Clarke is taken aback at first, and he probably knows that she would be; his mouth is soft and tentative on hers. Once she gets over her shock, she slides her hands back up to his face and kisses him back.

They kiss slowly like that for a good few moments in the dying light of day, sitting in the prairie grass, and despite the fact that they’re stranded Clarke feels like she’s home. That feeling is in the way that he kisses her sweetly, threads a hand through her hair that’s mostly fallen out of the fishtail braid; in the way that his nose drags down the line of her own and in the warm feeling that rises up in her stomach.

He breaks away first, but Clarke doesn’t open her eyes until a few moments later, savouring the lingering sensation of his lips. When her eyelids flutter open, she finds him staring at her, expression earnest.

“I don’t want you to be crying the first time you say that to me,” he says, voice raspy. It takes Clarke a moment to remember what they were talking about.

She attempts a watery smile at him at that. “I’ll say it, one day,” she promises him, wiping tears off her cheek with the back of her hand.

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound like he believes her, really, but the thing that really gets her is that despite that, he looks wholly content. He reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and they just sit there for a minute, content to sit quietly in each other’s company. “Clarke.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still crying.”

She giggles a bit, but it ends in an agonized groan. Now that the adrenaline of everything has worn off, the pain from the whip marks on her back is coming back with a vengeance. “My back hurts,” she tells him, feeling more tears burning at the back of her eyes, a burning nothing in comparison to the burning radiating from her back. “It hurts, a _lot_.” It feels like an understatement, no matter how she emphasizes it.

He bites his lip, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know.” A little pain creeps into his voice, like up til now he’s been hiding it as best he could, too. 

“We don’t even have bandages to change,” Clarke sighs, wincing as she tries to adjust her position. “God, Bellamy, we don’t have _anything_ at all.” It hits her that they have nothing but the clothes on their back, the guns Bellamy brought along, and the motorbike. Nothing else. “What are we going to do?”

He’s quiet a moment but then he just shrugs. “We’ll figure something out. Later.”

—

They stay exactly where they collapsed and sleep fitfully under the stars. The next day starts with Clarke vomiting in the bushes when Bellamy brings fish from a nearby stream (he huffs as if offended; they eat berries instead).

They drive for a while, in the same direction they were going. Bellamy figures out how to un-stick the throttle, so the acceleration isn’t a problem anymore. And that’s for the best, because Clarke has to get him to stop more than once to throw up.

“I hate being pregnant,” she laments after she’s hurled for a third time that day, still on her hands and knees.

He holds her hair away from her face and chuckles. He knows she doesn’t mean it.

Yeah, he’s right. That’s one thing she couldn’t be happier about.

These wounds on her back aren’t so thrilling, though.

They’re both finding it difficult to move with much agility, and Clarke’s worried the slashes might get infected.

So when that afternoon, they encounter a Grounder outpost housed in a dilapidated gas station on the highway, it only takes them a few minutes to decide what to do.

Bellamy holds the store owner at gunpoint while Clarke walks around the inside of the gas station convenience store— now filled with furs, weapons, and other such Grounder paraphernalia— and pulling medical supplies from the shelves.

While she’s knocking a spool of thread into a bag she’s pulled off the shelf that her eye catches on an old, faded poster on the wall. It’s clearly from a time before the bombs; it looks like it was once bright and vibrantly coloured. It’s an advertisement for prenatal vitamins.

She finds herself staring at the faded sign, the photo of a smiling woman with her hand to her belly, a little too long. Bellamy is getting antsy. “Hurry up,” he tells her, while not taking his eyes off the Grounder he’s currently got a gun trained on.

Clarke shakes herself out of it and goes to stand beside him. “Alright.” She’s shoved as many supplies she could into the bag, some with only hypothetical usefulness. But she doesn’t know how long it’s going to be until they can restock.

Bellamy stares hard at the wordless Grounder, then says to Clarke, “If we let him go, he’s going to tip them all off that we’ve been here.”

Clarke says nothing because, well, he’s not wrong. She hitches her bag up higher on her shoulder and looks at him expectantly. But Bellamy doesn’t do what she’s expecting. 

Instead, he strikes him in the head with the butt of his gun, and the man falls to the ground unconscious like a sack of bricks.

The two of them stare at his body crumpled to the floor for a second.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Clarke asks.

His jaw works before he replies, “I’m tired of murder being my first instinct.”

She absorbs those words, the bitter sort of way he says them, and she understands completely. It’s a sentiment she agrees with. “The Grounders already knew what direction we were going in,” she tells him. “Not that we left them in any condition to go after us,” because she’s rather certain most of the ones at the execution are dead, “but killing him won’t make any difference, anyway.” 

It’s just a reassurance, on her part. It _would_ probably be better if this witness was dead, but she doesn’t want to put that on Bellamy. Not when his shoulders are sagging from exhaustion and the furrow of his brow looks etched into his skin by now. She watches him flick the safety back on.

“So does this mean you’re finished with guns?” She asks lightly, a half-smile already growing on her face in anticipation of his answer.

He looks at her like she’s just suggested they go strangle some newborn kittens for the hell of it. “No,” he merely replies, and tucks the gun back into his holster.

Her smile grows bigger. “Well then, should I be jealous of your attachment to that thing?”

He cocks an eyebrow at her, then leans in and kisses her hard. It’s brief, but when he pulls away her heart is thumping far too fast.

He licks his lips, gaze still on her mouth. “I’ve never done _that_ with it, have I?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” she returns with a smirk.

He huffs out a short laugh and shakes his head. 

She kind of wants to kiss him again, wants to do more, but having her back burn like fire almost non stop for the last twenty hours doesn’t exactly enhance the mood.

They leave, find a secluded place a few miles away, and finally get to properly clean and bandage their wounds. Clarke sighs with relief when the pain dulls away to a distant ache finally, and so does he.

“We have to repay him,” she tells Bellamy afterwards.

His eyes flick up. “Who? The guy I held at gunpoint while you robbed his store?”

She rolls her eyes a bit at his tone. “We took a lot of stuff from him.”

Bellamy relents with a sigh, and using his new bow and arrows, he bags a few rabbits. They leave most of their meat at the door of the store that night, as a kind of repayment. It’s enough to soothe Clarke’s conscience at least.

They’re not criminals, after all. They just want to survive.

—

They spend a few days in peaceful quiet, not travelling much. They’re trying to recover; to take a moment to breathe. Clarke does a lot of sleeping.

Like, a _lot_.

To the point where Bellamy would be alarmed, if he didn’t remember how tired his mother used to get. Clarke being asleep for fourteen hours in one go, in this instance, is something he barely bats an eye at.

When she wakes up, she scolds him, tells him to wake her up next time she sleeps that long. He shrugs it off, and doesn’t. He lets her sleep. God knows she needs it.

In the meantime, with nothing else to do, he gathers food for them (Clarke doesn’t like meat anymore) or spends time idly carving pieces of wood. He’s shit at it, really, and whenever Clarke wakes up while he’s doing this she laughs at him.

He doesn’t mind in the slightest.

It’s a few days into this blissful existence when he finds her lying down with her eyes awake, expression contorted into one of worry.

He’s immediately at her side. “What’s wrong?”

It takes her a minute, but then she speaks. “Back at the store,” she tells him slowly. “I— I saw this poster advertising prenatal vitamins.”

“Okay…” He’s not really sure where she’s going with this until she elaborates.

“Bellamy, there are no prenatal vitamins on post-apocalyptic Earth.”

“So? You don’t need them. Plenty of people are having perfectly healthy kids even now.”

“Okay, but…” Suddenly, there are tears filling her eyes, and she covers her face with her hands. “Bellamy, it just occurred to me that I’m not really getting all the nutrients I’m supposed to be, you know? Iron. Folic acid. Or—”

He cuts her off, gently trying to pry her hands off her face. “Clarke, that’s okay. We’ll get them. You know,” he says, smiling to (hopefully) make her smile, “before there were store-bought vitamins, people got their vitamins from vegetables.”

She smiles back, but her brow is still furrowed, and then something seems to occur to her and her face falls completely. “But Bellamy, I— I was _drinking_ , earlier, before we knew I was pregnant.” Bellamy doesn’t really react to this, and she leans forward, eyes looking a little wild. “You’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’re pregnant, Bellamy! What if I —”

“You didn’t,” he reassures her firmly.

“But _what if_ it’s—”

“It’s not.”

She stares at him for a moment. “How can you be so calm about this? I would’ve thought you’d be the first to freak out.”

Well, it’s nice to know that his facade is working. 

He’s worried out of his goddamn mind, but he’s not going to tell Clarke that. She’s lost weight from vomiting so much, and he hates seeing the fullness of her cheeks and hips being carved away. He doesn’t know how long she’s been pregnant, although if she just started showing symptoms of it now, he’s got to guess at least five or six weeks. And in those five or six weeks, he’s now struggling to remember what he was giving her to eat, how much she was drinking, if she was getting enough rest,how hard she got hit in the stomach when they were in _captivity…_

And of course, now that they’re literally homeless, he’s worrying about what they’re going to do when they need to settle somewhere to have their baby. They have _nothing_. Having too much time to reflect on this over the hours Clarke sleeps has not helped his mental situation at all.

To summarize: Bellamy is not calm at all.

“Look,” he tells her calmly. “I’ll worry when there’s a reason to. I’ll take care of everything, okay? But _you_ don’t need to worry about it.” Stress isn’t good for the baby, but he’s not going to bring that particular fact to the forefront of Clarke’s mind, because he has a feeling she’ll start stressing about the fact that she’s stressing.

“I do, though,” she replies, looking up at the sky. “God, Bellamy, it took us _forever_. I was starting to really think that would never happen for us. I don’t know if— ” her voice wavers but comes back as a whisper. “I don’t know if I’d be able to deal with it if it… gets screwed up.”

He doesn’t know what to say. The same thoughts plague him, too. Instead of answering, he sets his gun down and lies down beside her, opening his arm out in silent invitation.

She rolls onto her side immediately, nestling into his side, and he draws her closer. Maybe there’s no certainty in this world for them; but at least there’s this. Always, there’s this.

—

They wake up the next morning in significantly better moods. Well, he does, anyway. He thinks she’s asleep, at least until he stands from where he’s been boiling water for tea over their small fire and stretches, and she comes up behind him and leaps on his back.

He staggers a bit under her weight, and she wraps her arms around his neck and smacks a kiss on the back of his head. “Good morning.” Bellamy can hear the smile in her voice and his mood improves even further.

His hands finally find purchase under her thighs and he hoists her a little higher. The skin on his back smarts a bit. Although it doesn’t bother him much now, he has a feeling Clarke forgot about the whip marks, because otherwise she wouldn’t have jumped on him for a piggyback ride. He can feel her breasts pressing against him, and the realization sends a little jolt through him.

This has been a constant problem for the past few days. He’s not going to act on it, though. She’s tired as hell, _first_ of all, he reminds himself firmly. And besides, as far as he’s concerned, this new side of their relationship, with things more in the open— ( _she loves me_ , he remembers, and that sends a jolt of a different kind through his heart)— it only started a few days ago. There’s no need to rush.

He kind of wishes his dick would understand that better, though.

Clarke presses another kiss to his shoulder, not really helping matters, but it reminds him he’s supposed to be giving her a piggyback ride. He starts walking automatically, into the treeline towards where he found a stream the other day. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like crap,” she replies happily. “But I’ve decided I don’t care right now.”

He grins. “I like that philosophy.”

They banter back and forth like that for a while as Bellamy walks at a brisk pace through the trees, then sprints across a clearing without warning. He feels terribly smug by the short, excited scream that incites from her. She grabs onto him painfully tight, though.

She starts getting bossy after a while, tugging his hair and nudging her heels into his sides like he’s a horse. In response, he walks under a few trees with low hanging branches, listening with satisfaction as she sputters.

When they get to the stream, he asks playfully, “Where to next?”

She’s silent a moment, leaning her head against the back of his. Her response is more thoughtful than anything. “You know what I _really_ want?”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to go someplace with you where our names are meaningless,” she says, lips brushing his ear and sending a chill through him. “Where nobody cares who we are.”

He understands what she means, of course— she wants to keep travelling. She wants to see what else this huge world of theirs has to offer, to see if maybe there’s a place out there that will just let them _be_.

He wants that, too. More than anything. “Seconded,” he finally manages.

“Great. Now put me down,” she says. “I have to go pee.”

It’s a pregnancy thing, he knows that, but he can’t help but grin. “You always have to go pee.”

She whaps him playfully upside the head.

—

That stretch of highway doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon, so they keep travelling down it. During the day, they charge the bike in the sun and Clarke sleeps, and they travel late into the night. Bellamy drives most of the time now, and Clarke presses herself up against him with her arms wrapped around his torso. Occasionally she’ll scrape her fingernails absentmindedly down his chest and he has to actively focus on not swerving off the road, but otherwise it’s… good. It’s _fun_.

At some point, the terrain starts to change. It becomes desert.

And with it, comes a lot more of the sun. Both of them find themselves shedding layers, and he tries not to notice the swell of her breasts when she tosses her shirt to the side to cool off; but it’s a lost cause. He’s pretty sure he sees her gaze linger on him when he takes off his own and stretches, but she never acts on it. During the hottest hours, they try to find refuge in the shade.

The bike starts recharging a lot faster in the intense sun, but the highway eventually stops, coming to a broken and cracked end in the middle of a stretch of desert. It’s replaced with winding, flat dirt road.

Sources of water are suddenly few and far between. Whenever they do find one, he gulps it down, but whatever they store in their canteen, Bellamy makes sure Clarke gets the most of it until they find the next.

“You need some, too,” she argues feebly at some point. But her skin is too red to be healthy and she’s swaying on her feet.

He takes the canteen from her and pretends to take a sip. In the meantime, she leans her head against her hands, looking a little bit out of it. He examines her dazed expression, feeling worried.

“You need to cover up,” he tells her, pulling her shirt out of their pack. “You’re getting sunburned.”

She eyes the shirt with distaste. “But it’s so hot out.”

“Better sweaty than burned,” he argues. “At least cover your shoulders.”

She grumbles a lot but eventually does it. In a show of solidarity he pulls his shirt back on too. She pouts.

“If you’re going to make me be uncomfortably hot for the next little while, you could at least keep giving me something nice to look at,” she says, fanning at her own unnaturally red cheeks.

He blinks, and it takes him a moment to figure out what she’s saying, but then— oh. He feels heat rise to his face and ducks his head. Clarke sees it anyway and giggles, and he throws her the canteen in an attempt to skate over his moment of shyness. “Drink up. You’re dehydrated.” 

“Mmhm,” she agrees, tipping her head back to let the last few drops fall onto her tongue, but her eyes remain on him. “ _Really_ thirsty.”

—

After so many days of travelling, it feels like a very suspicious coincidence that there don’t seem to be any people at all.

Bellamy’s on high alert for signs of life, so later when Clarke shouts, “Grounders!” in his ear he’s immediately slowing down. “Where?” he hisses back.

She clambers up almost onto her knees behind him, pointing wildly into the distance. “Look! There!”

He snaps his eyes in the direction she’s pointing. There’s… nothing there at all.

“Over there, you said?” he asks carefully, pointing his own hand to the horizon, where all he really sees are a few tumbleweeds and a misshapen cactus.

She nods frantically. “There are people, Bellamy. Maybe we should turn around.” She sounds very worried for a moment, at least until she stops and giggles. “Or maybe we should go say hello.”

He stops the bike.

“Why’d you stop?” she whines.

“Clarke,” he asks evenly, panicking inside, “how are you feeling?”

She tilts her head to the sky, revealing her ruddy cheeks and forehead. “My boobs hurt. Actually, everything does.”

Bellamy kicks the stand down and stands to press a hand to her forehead. It’s too hot. He grits his teeth. “We’re taking a break.”

She snaps her head towards him at that, looking very lucid for a second. “No,” she says petulantly. “I want to keep going.”

Bellamy shakes his head firmly. “Not like this.”

“Not like this _what_?”

“Not when you’re clearly suffering from heat exhaustion.”

“No, I’m not.”

Her voice is so sure, but the way she sways tells him differently. He knows he shouldn’t have let her convince him with her arguments to keep going before. He should have known she was just trying to push herself. Stupid of him, really, and he’s cursing himself internally as he scans the horizon for places where they might find shade. “I said, we’re taking a break.” There aren’t too many trees, but he spots a large one a good few minutes walk off the road. He pushes his own sweaty hair off his forehead and grabs her limp hand. “Come on.”

—

When they get to the tree he was eyeing, he doesn’t expect to find a trapdoor beside it, rusted mostly shut.

A few kicks and the thing opens, and he and Clarke peer inside.

It’s an underground bunker.

“It’s like the one Finn found,” Clarke says dazedly, and he’s about to nod. But then her body pitches forward suddenly, and he has to grab her around the waist so that she doesn’t fall face-first in.

Leaving the bike just outside, he climbs carefully inside with her body in his arms, and his own skin seems to sigh in relief as the sun is trapped away above them. The room is almost _cool_ from being closed away so long, and musty too. He doesn’t mind that too much though, not with the drop of temperature by several degrees that comes with it.

There’s an old, ratty-looking mattress in the corner that he carefully deposits Clarke on. Asides from that, there’s not much else here, as he finds while he’s poking around. It looks like this place has already been thoroughly raided for anything of use. There are some books left on the shelf, though— Harry Potter ones, if the faded labels are anything to go by.

While he’s pulling one from the shelf he finds an unopened packet of pretzels it was obscuring from view, and his stomach growls loudly, a reminder that he hasn’t eaten in awhile. But the way his throat burns reminds him that eating salted snacks right now will be something he’ll live to regret later. He tosses the food in his pack instead, and that’s when Clarke stirs.

“Water,” she sighs from between cracked lips, and he immediately fishes in their pack and pulls out the canteen. He grimaces at how light it feels but gives it to her anyway. She gulps the whole thing down immediately, and then keeps the thing tipped at her lips, licking away excess moisture.

He watches her do it. “Clarke,” he begins. “You’re—”

“I’m not— this isn’t heat exhaustion,” she mumbles, tossing an arm over her eyes. “I’ll be good in a bit.”

He sits down cross-legged beside the mattress, feeling a smile tug at his lips. He reaches a hand into her tangled waves and strokes her hair away from her forehead. “Alright. Hypothetically speaking only, if someone was suffering from heat exhaustion, what would you do to treat them?”

She squints up at the ceiling, rolling her shoulders. She’s already showing a great deal more energy than she was twenty minutes ago, which is a relief. “Get them fluids,” she says decisively, nodding to herself. “Remove unnecessary clothing and cool their skin somehow.”

Okay. So really, all things he doesn’t have the supplies to do. He runs a hand over his face and sighs heavily.

“This mattress is lumpy,” she grumbles. 

“Yeah, I couldn’t afford the five star hotel.”

She frowns at his joke. “No, seriously, feel it.” To humour her, he does. Pauses. It’s _far_ too lumpy to just be a shitty mattress.

He scoots to the side of the mattress, reaches into the torn apart fabric that covers it— Clarke lifts herself up slightly so his hand can reach to where her upper back was resting on. His hand discovers— 

Plastic water bottles.

It feels like he’s just struck gold, for all the jubilation he feels. He pulls two of them out immediately, then reaches back in and finds two more.

They exchange excited grins, and he tosses one to her immediately, watching her crack it open and immediately take a long gulp. Her face scrunches up for a moment. “Not the freshest water, but it’ll do.”

She downs the whole thing in a matter of seconds, and he merely watches in satisfaction until she gestures at their new stockpile and says, “You, too.”

“I’m not thirsty right now,” he lies. They need to store as much of it as possible.

Her voice is sharp, and she sounds very Clarke-like for the first time in hours, maybe even days. “Don’t be stupid, Bellamy.”

He blinks at her. “I’m fine.”

“I can see your hands shaking.” He looks down in surprise, and lo and behold, his fingers are trembling and he didn’t even notice. “Bellamy, _please_ drink some water.”

It’s her pleading, soft tone of voice that gets him to relent and crack one open for himself. He takes a few gulps to appease her— his throat screams in relief— and then examines her. She still looks flushed, and her earlier medical advice comes to mind. He says, “Take off your shirt.”

She blinks a few times, and he immediately regrets not having given context. “Are you propositioning me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, flopping back to lean on her hands and smiling. “Finally.”

He chooses to ignore that. “Just do it. I’ve got an idea.”

She complies, and he steadfastly ignores the wealth of flushed skin that it reveals.

“Pants, too,” he says, ripping a sheet of cloth from the mattress as he says it.

She only gives him a little bit of shit for that line, but she catches on when he dumps half his water bottle on the cloth and wraps it around her shoulders.

She practically moans at the relief at the cooling sensation, head tossing back, and his throat feels dry again so he turns away quickly to take another chug of water.

(It doesn’t really help.)

“Yeah, good idea,” she says in the meanwhile, and shimmies out of her jeans. They get stuck at her knees, stiff with dirt and sweat, so he tugs at the pant legs to help her with them.

She sighs in contentment a few minutes later when she’s wrapped in cold, damp cloth. Bellamy fans her forehead with one of the softcover Harry Potter books on the shelf. The pages keep falling out of the thing and he eventually gives up trying to carefully put them back into their place, leaving them on the floor for the time being. Another page, one that’s thicker and not part of the book, falls out as well. It looks like a map of some kind, but he doesn’t pay it any attention right then. After a few minutes of fanning Clarke, he’s pleased to see the unnatural colour leaving her skin.

“What about you?” she asks after a while, eyes closed.

“What about me.”

She cracks an eye open. “You need to rest, too.”

He considers that statement for a moment. He’s pushed all his own discomfort to the side for the past little while in favour of taking care of her, but now that it looks like her lucidity is returning, he’s starting to feel the weight of it all press down on him too.

His guard is only down for a moment, but she sees his fatigue in the split second that it is, and scoots over on the mattress a bit, patting on the space she’s just vacated.

“It’s alright—” he begins to say, but she cuts him off.

“I’m tired and I don’t want to argue right now but I _will_ if you don’t lie down right this instant.” She throws an arm tiredly over her eyes to make a point.

He hesitates, and then— oh, to hell with it. He’s too tired to argue, same as her. He kicks off his boots and lies down awkwardly on his back next to her. And it’s so dark and cool down here that he finds himself slipping into sleep rather quickly.

—

He half-wakes some time later in the darkness, but he can’t tell the time of day at all with the hatch to the outside closed.

In his sleep, he’s somehow thrown his arm over Clarke’s chest, fingers resting on the underside of her white bra. He doesn’t want his body heat making her too hot again, and blearily tries to shift his hand away.

Her hand comes up to clasp his to her chest, stopping him.

He blinks a few times, finally getting to a point of full wakefulness. He’s definitely not ready for what he sees when he adjusts.

The cooling cloths have been discarded to the sides, Clarke has her head tossed back, one hand holding his to her breast and the other— his eyes follow the line of her wrist helplessly— into her panties.

She moans, eyes still closed, and he tries really hard not to let that go straight to his dick and fails. “Cl— Clarke?”

Her eyes open, and yes she’s fully awake, even looking healthier than she was when they went to sleep. She stares at him defiantly, still moving her own hips against her hand, and he can’t stop his gaze from going back there, to where her knuckles disappear under the thin blue strip of cloth.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounds gravelly.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps breathlessly. “I could use some help.”

“Help,” he repeats, wanting to make sure he’s understanding that correctly.

She nods.

“Are you sure you—”

“Bellamy, get your hand down there right now or so _help_ me—” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice with that kind of explicit instruction. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Okay. Whatever you want.” He’s probably going to find a way to guilt-trip himself later about this but he really doesn’t have the kind of self-control to deny Clarke when she’s almost naked, touching herself in front of him and asking him to join _in_.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he scoots a little lower on the mattress so his hand can slide down her bare stomach— no swell there to be seen, yet— and then under the cotton fabric of her panties.

Under the fabric, his hand covers hers completely. Her breath hitches and he watches her face closely. “Not that I’m complaining,” he can feel his voice going lower, “but what brought this on?”

Her eyes snap to his, and she looks furious for a moment. “You,” she bites it. He blinks, and she goes on. “Do you realize you haven’t even _kissed_ me since the store?”

He stares. No, he hadn’t actually actively thought about it. He supposes he didn’t do that in an effort to keep it in his pants. Kissing Clarke Griffin tends to lead to urges that are better left suppressed when she’s tired and pregnant.

When he doesn’t reply right away, she continues, a little vulnerable sounding now. “Have you not wanted to…?”

“No,” he replies quickly. “No, that’s not it at all.”

Her expression clears. “So tell me why we haven’t had sex no matter how many times I tried to give you a hint?” She pushes her hips against both of their hands for emphasis. He closes his eyes for a second before elaborating. 

“You’ve been sleeping a lot. I thought you were tired. Didn’t want to rush things,” he replies lamely. Neither of their hands under her panties are moving, but he can feel the heavy warmth radiating towards his hand, and he forcibly resists from moving it any further just now.

“Well, I want you to rush things right now,” she tells him firmly, and claps her hand round the back of his head, reeling him in for a kiss. Their lips connect and any self-control he had over his hands is demolished. While he’s kissing her, his hand in her panties finds her fingers, feels the way they’re only circling lazily over her clit. He pushes at her knuckles gently with his fingers, and she follows that lead, letting her fingers slide into herself on their own.

Her back arches, and her lips open against his, letting him turn the kiss hot and dirty without preamble. But after a few moments of this, her fingering herself with his hand urging her on, she shakes her head and breaks the kiss to stutter, “Not— not enough.”

He lowers his head to her throat, mouths at her pulse. “Okay. Let me.”

“Yes,” she breathes quickly. She retracts her own hand, and he lets his replace it, plunging a finger into her immediately. She’s already so slick that he can’t help but groan.

She spreads her legs further apart at his touch and thrusts her hips against his movements. He lets her set the pace. Her hand is still there, trying to circle her clit, but he nudges her away with the palm of his hand. “I got this,” he murmurs into her skin, grinding his palm lightly down on her clit for emphasis that yeah, he’s got this. “Why don’t you take care of these for me instead?” He nudges his nose against the side of her breast.

While her hand slides up her body to cup her breast, he idly contemplates the potential embarrassment of creaming his pants right now. He watches her run her thumb over her nipple, and then after a bit he decides enough is enough for him today, reaches up and kisses her again while he fucks her with his fingers. Her free hand finds its way to the back of his head to pull a fist of his curls into a death grip.

When he adds another finger he can hear the wet sound of it and combined with Clarke’s answering mewl, it’s the hottest thing he’s heard in awhile.

He figures he should get her off quickly— you know, for purely _practical_ reasons only, he doesn’t want her _overheating_ again— and he searches for that sweet spot inside of her, adding another finger and curling them all at the knuckle, to find it on her inner walls.

He knows when he’s found it because her face jerks forward involuntarily while he’s kissing her, and then she’s grinding down on his hand, and he presses against her with his palm, and it’s over quickly after that.

Bellamy kisses her through it, feels when her kisses become less energetic and more lazy, and when he finally pulls away he’s satisfied to find her expression relaxed, no crease in her brow for once.

He slips his hand out of her panties and they just stare at each other for a few seconds. Her half-lidded gaze on him is warm, and her cheeks flushed slightly for completely different reasons than before. She looks wild and beautiful and sated as can be; to distract himself from his own arousal, he leans in again to peck a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Did I help?” He can’t help if he sounds just a little smug.

He doesn’t expect her response. “I adore you,” Clarke tells him out of the blue, voice still a little throaty.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks and looks down at the mattress. He hears her laugh before she places a lazy finger under his chin and tilting it back up to hers.

“Why do compliments embarrass you?”

He’s not used to getting them, to be completely honest. But he goes with the safer answer, a joke. “You’re just saying that because you came.”

She continues watching him with a little smile. “No,” she says, reaching up to brush an errant curl away from his eyes, “I’m not.”

He’s about to kiss her again, because there are certain parts of him that really want to see where this might go from here, but then she yawns, jaw cracking a bit as her mouth opens wide.

“I’m _not_ tired,” she murmurs, even while her eyelids are fluttering closed.

“Right.”

“Just need to close my eyes for a bit, that’s all.”

He stays silent, rolling onto his back again beside her. She keeps talking though.

“I wonder why there’s a bunker in the middle of the desert.”

“Why not.” His eyes are now trained on the ceiling, except now he notices something he didn’t before there. He squints at it. There’s… a logo of some kind faded and chipped, but unmistakably painted on; white on the grey concrete.

“University of New Mexico,” Clarke reads the script around the edges of the logo, and he glances over to see her looking at the same thing on the ceiling. She points at it excitedly. “Bellamy, this bunker belonged to a university. There’s a _university_ nearby.” There’s clear yearning in her voice.

“There _was_ a university nearby,” Bellamy corrects her. She really shouldn’t be getting her hopes up.

“Right,” she nods emphatically. “Was.” Her eyes remain on the picture, small smile still on her face.

Something occurs to Bellamy right then, and he reaches to the side to the pages from the book he’d discarded earlier. He finds the map that had fallen out and opens it, smoothing out the creases.

“What’s that?”

He squints at it. There are road signs, an arrow that says YOU ARE HERE, and then a bolded line that leads to a small symbol the same as the one of the ceiling. He hands it to her. “ _There’s_ your university.”

She scans the map excitedly. “Bellamy, it doesn’t look like it’s that far. Maybe there’s still something there.” 

She arches an eyebrow up at him when he offers no response, and he sighs. “You want to go check it out.”

Clarke’s smile only grows bigger.

—

They wait until the sun is lowering behind the horizon before they finally climb out of the bunker. Bellamy would wait longer, but it’s been a miracle just getting Clarke to stop for one day, so. He’s not complaining too much.

(“Fine, but tell me the _minute_ you start feeling dizzy,” he warns her.

She just rolls her eyes at him.)

Following the map proves a little difficult, seeing as many landmarks aren’t there anymore. But by following the natural landmarks— the mountains in the distance, the highway they were driving on, which was apparently called the Interstate 40, whatever that was supposed to mean— they eventually find it.

There’s almost nothing to be found, really. They know they’ve reached it because there’s a low, rectangular shaped arch with the name of the university inscribed in the stone, barely there and probably undecipherable unless one was looking for it.

But behind that entrance, where there might have been a good many buildings in the past, there’s almost nothing. Concrete rubble, here and there. There’s one small building that’s standing, and he follows Clarke inside.

Clarke stops short in front of the sign that still stands in the lobby, and he looks up at it. The words are almost gone, but he can still make out SCHOOL OF MEDICINE written on it.

He glances at Clarke. She looks almost transfixed, staring up at it with just a hint of longing.

He gets it. He gets it, because he too felt the intense wave of— _missing_ something he’s never had, when he crossed the threshold into this place. Neither of them have had the chance to go to school since, well, the Ark. And it wasn’t like the Ark had all the resources possible to make a university. It sounds like a dream.

“Sometimes I wish I lived back then,” Clarke says out of the blue. 

He agrees wholeheartedly with that statement. Not just because it was before the bombs; maybe it’s naive of him to think, but it does seem a lot like life might have been easier. Lighter. Better. “If you did,” he replies, making idle conversation, “Would you have gone to school for art, or medicine?”

She considers this, conflict warring over her features before she says, “Both. I’d do both.” A small smile crosses her lips, and her eyes look very far away for a moment. “I’d do everything I could.” She nudges his side. “What about you?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” he says.

“History? Literature?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. There’s a yearning in his voice, too; he can’t help it. He’s seen the movies and read the books up on the Ark, too. They offer a glimpse into a life much simpler, even the sad ones. 

She reaches out and interlaces their fingers silently, and they stand there for a moment dreaming about lives that could never have been theirs.

—

She wanders back outside to look at other things, and he continues to pick around the small building. It was probably a reception area, from the looks of it, and while he’s strolling he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He almost startles, because there’s something small in his pocket.

He fishes it out and stares at it a moment.

It’s a ring.

Well, it’s not just any ring. It’s a ring from the ALIE house, one that he had noticed Clarke’s lingering glance on when she was rooting through the drawers. He’d just picked it up one day and aimlessly put it in his pocket, and it had remained there ever since.

He thinks maybe one day he’ll work up the courage to give it to her, but not yet.

Because now, as he frowns up at the smooth, white wall, something’s nagging at him. It’s almost _too_ clean in here— the tiles aren’t even chipped, and it’s with a feeling of foreboding that he realizes the only other building he’s recently seen standing that was this nice was maintained _after_ the bombs had dropped.

He turns and calls her name, ready to share this information with her.

“Clarke,” he calls. No answer.

He frowns and turns. She’d walked not too far.

He hears a small scuffling sound outside, and exhales in relief as he sets into that direction.

As he’s rounding the corner, he says, “Hey, Clarke—”

He looks up and stops dead in his tracks at the sight in front of him, one that he’s not prepared for at all.

Two white vans, with massive tires; four people, shrouded from head to toe in material like they’re ghosts, and goggles affixed to their eyes. One of them has his arm wrapped around Clarke’s neck, and he’s pressing a gun to her temple. His other hand is clapped against her mouth, and her cheeks are streaked already with tears.

Bellamy’s so shocked, so caught off guard at seeing people after days— weeks, really— without seeing anyone at all but Clarke, that he’s not prepared when they jump at him.

—

There’s a scuffle, but in the end, Bellamy doesn’t get to his gun in time, and his hands are being wrenched behind his back and a gun pressed to his own skull as well.

Clarke watches on fretfully, still struggling futilely; but she’s so weak from earlier, so exhausted, that she can barely keep her eyes open as it is.

“I told you she wasn’t alone,” says the one with a gun pressed to Bellamy’s temple. Bellamy sends Clarke a wild-eyed look, and she gives him the teensiest nod of reassurance. She’s scared out of her mind, but she’s okay.

They’d come out of nowhere. One minute she was bending down to pick up a flyer that was on the ground— some old university magazine— and the next they were all there, as if they’d appeared out of thin air.

The one holding her releases his hand from her mouth and she doesn’t waste a moment. “What do you want?” she tries. “We don’t have anything.”

One of them pulls the gun from Bellamy’s thigh holster easily. “I beg to differ.” Bellamy glares murderously.

“Okay,” Clarke says appeasingly, “you have what you want. You can take all our stuff, alright? We won’t put up a fight.” She thinks she hears Bellamy huff but ignores it. “Just leave us alone.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” is the reply. “It’s you we want.”

Both she and Bellamy freeze up for a moment. “Me?” she asks carefully. Do they know who she is?

Her suspicion is put to rest immediately. The goggled man examines Bellamy’s gun for a moment before nodding with satisfaction and lowering it. “Yes. We want people.” He looks up sharply and asks, “Where are you from?”

Clarke hesitates.

She can’t see his face, but she can tell he’s grinning behind all that cloth. “Nobodies, I see. Just the kind we like. Put them away,” he barks at his cronies.

They start pulling on her, dragging her backwards, and she sees Bellamy being pulled back as well— being pulled the opposite way.

“No, wait. Wait,” she insists, tugging harder. She can see that Bellamy is being taken to the other van, and she feels panic mounting in her. They’re being separated, and she can’t— she can’t deal with that. “Please, wait! At least put us together.” Nobody is heeding her cries, and she can see her desperation being mirrored in Bellamy’s eyes. “Wait! We’re not nobodies, okay,” she screams, and deals her last, riskiest card. “You can’t take us. We’re _Sky people_.”

Everyone pauses, and that’s enough hesitation for both she and Bellamy to yank themselves out of their captors’ grip.

A minute later, Bellamy’s sprawled on the ground on his stomach, two Grounders holding him down, and Clarke’s being lifted thrashing and screaming into one of the vans.

She can see Bellamy still struggling, and someone says: “Kill him, he’s too much trouble.”

“No!” she screams, but she’s being manhandled, forced into the dark space inside the back of the van, and there are too many bodies in front of her, obstructing her vision.

The last glimpse of Bellamy she sees is with one of the kidnappers with a gun pressed to the back of Bellamy’s head and clicking off the safety.

Bellamy’s brown eyes meet hers solemnly, then flinching closed when the finger tenses on the trigger. The sound of the gunshot coincides with her vision being obstructed by the two who are shoving her into the van.

She goes wild, surging forward and screaming his name: “Bellamy!” She’s biting and scratching and kicking, up til the point where she feels a hard pinch on her arm. She slumps back helplessly, barely registering blood in the sand near the van as she starts to feel the effects of whatever drug they’ve pumped into her.

She slumps back helplessly, finding her vision tunneling until it’s only on the kidnapper in front of her who’s now dropping a needle to the ground. He speaks, and his voice sounds a little warped in her ears as she starts to fade away.

“‘Sky’ people.” He snorts and grabs the handles of the doors in preparation for closing them. “What a load of _bullshit_.”

The doors slam shut, leaving Clarke in the darkness.

—

She wakes up to the sound of a gunshot still reverberating in her ears.

 _Bellamy_.

Not dead, she tells herself wildly. She just— she just has to get out of here. Get out of here, and get back to him.

Her thoughts aren’t so linear after that. She registers all at once that her mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton— oh wait, that’s her tongue— and she’s still in the dark, chilly metal box that is the van. She staggers to her feet with some difficulty; it’s still moving, shaking as it runs over the uneven ground. She tries the doors. Unsurprisingly, they’re locked. She crosses to the front wall, lifts a hand to and bangs feebly on the metal, hoping the drivers will hear.

“Hey,” she tries to say, but the word gets stuck in her throat. She’s parched, a headache coming on, and she’s just so _tired_. She bangs on the metal a few times with her palm, works up some spit in her mouth and shouts louder. “Hey! Let me out!”

She doesn’t hear anything. She casts her gaze about, searching for something, anything inside this metal box, and while she’s craning her neck she feels cool metal around her neck for the first time. Her hand comes up automatically to clutch at it. It’s a metal collar, around her neck. She tries to cast her head down to look at it, but the angle makes it difficult. It’s thick, and from what she can feel, smooth and seamless. She wrenches at it a few times, trying her hardest to squash down panic, before giving up for the time being. It’s not connected to a chain just yet, so she’s not concerned about it.

There’s nothing else in the space with her, although she sees an old bloodstain on the wall and her stomach turns.

A flash of memory comes to her. Bellamy’s blood splattered in the sand.

He’s _fine_ , she tells herself firmly while wrapping her arms around herself. She refuses to think about the fact that the gun went off and it was pressed to his skull. No. Bellamy’s alive. He’s a survivor, just like her. She just needs to get out of here and find him.

She turns back to the wall and slams her palm against it with new vigour. “Hey! I know you’re listening, let me out!” she yells.

She doesn’t really expect anything, of course, but the truck suddenly screeches to a halt, and she’s thrown off balance, falling against the wall.

She hears scraping of locks on the door, and she braces herself against the wall with one hand, ready to leap out and fight her way out.

The door swings open, the sun blares into the small space, and she leaps out into the open without hesitation.

She pauses after one step forward when she realizes she’s staring down the barrel of a rifle.

“Hands on your head,” she’s told. She does, blinking against the sudden light. The person in front of her isn’t wearing the same garb as the kidnappers were; he’s in a black uniform, similar in look to Ark-issue, actually, and he’s got slicked back blond hair and cold, blue eyes.

“Where am I?” she asks, voice high-pitched. He doesn’t answer, just turns her around and jabs his gun between her shoulder blades, pushing her forward. “What are you doing with me?”

She hears other voices behind them. “She got knocked out good. Wasn’t awake during the Market,” someone murmurs. “She’s fresh, only got picked up two days ago.”

Two _days_? Already?

“I’m not in the mood for explaining,” mutters the one holding a gun to her back, and shoves her forward again so she stumbles out of the shadow of the van, and then she’s taking in her surroundings completely.

It’s… a town?

Or the beginnings of a town, she thinks. It’s one long street, as far as she can tell, with buildings built up and down it. There are people on the paved road; some with guns, some with collars around their necks just like her, and some who just look like… normal people. There’s vehicles, even horses on the road. It reminds her of an old Western she saw on the Ark. “What is this?” she asks, momentarily curious over her urge to escape.

“This,” the man behind her says, “is the re-building of civilization. You’re part of it. Congratulations.” He emphasizes this with an extra hard jab with his rifle at her spine.

Like _that_ makes any sense. Clarke disregards it; it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s leaving.

She’s taken inside one of the buildings, where she’s deposited in the hands of an older woman wearing a collar around her neck just like Clarke. Clarke thinks about making a run for it as soon as the one with the gun walks back out into the sun, but the place is crawling with guns.

She casts her eyes around this particular room. There’s a fan running in the corner, an old yellowed one. There are hammocks strung up everywhere, taking up most of the space. There are dozens and dozens of them, attached to the wooden poles holding the roof up around them. She deduces this must be some kind of sleeping quarters. Considering it’s daylight, no one’s in it at the moment except the two of them.

“Did he give you the re-building civilization line?” the woman asks briskly. “Dramatic, that one. Steer clear of him.” She talks as if giving Clarke life advice, and then throws a something for Clarke to catch. “Here, some clothes…”

The woman continues talking to Clarke as the sky falls dark, but Clarke doesn’t pay her any attention at all. She doesn’t plan to stay here. She’s looking at exits, plotting her escape.

She’s pointed towards a hammock hanging in the corner of the room, and then she’s left alone.

She doesn’t waste any time.

It’s not twenty minutes later when she’s choking out the guard who’d come to try to stop her as she was running, with the cloth of the hammock. There’s yelling in the background, and Clarke doesn’t hear any of it, because her heart is beating wildly and it sounds like: _Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy_.

Then she feels horrible, fiery pain originating around her neck, immobilizing her, and she lets out a strangled sound before she releases the guard and collapses to the ground.

She’s being electrocuted, and it keeps going for a good ten seconds after she’s fallen in the middle of the street, twitching from the pain. A few people have paused to look, but most don’t.

Lying on her side, she sees the steel-toed boots of the blond guard come into her line of sight, and he tuts softly as her vision wavers.

“Maybe someone should have warned this one about the shock collars.”

—

She wakes up back in her hammock as if nothing has occurred at all, but this time night has fallen and there are others here with her, lounging in their hammocks, playing cards on the floor, someone stirring a pot in the far corner with bowls next to them— no one looks at her, and she swings her legs over the side of the hammock with the full intention of going right back to planning an escape. But then a nearby male voice cuts through her desperate haze.

“You won’t escape, you know.” He’s got a clear accent hanging on his English, one that she can’t place.

She glances in the direction of the voice. He’s lying in the hammock next to hers, head resting on his arm as he watches her. He looks to be a few years younger than her; maybe eighteen or so at most. He’s got longish dark curly hair and brown skin. And he’s _filthy—_ she can hardly see the white of his undershirt, so smudged with dirt as he is.

“We’ve all tried it,” he says, a small sad smile playing on his lips. He looks unnerved at her examination of him. Just like the rest of them here, he’s got that metal collar around his neck. “And then we all got shocked.” He gestures at the collar. “Rinse and repeat. Try it too many times, and you die. Or worse.”

Clarke gets her throat to work finally. “You don’t understand. I have someone to get back to.” Her voice shakes.

“We all did,” he replies. There’s something to his tone she doesn’t like. Not condescending exactly, but like he’s delivered this weary speech to people many times before and already expects every single word that’s going to come out of her mouth.

“They took me from him. He’s all I have left,” Clarke whispers.

He yawns. “He was with you when you were taken?” Clarke nods eagerly. “Then he’s dead.” His voice is flat with certainty.

Clarke’s heart plummets. “No, he’s not,” she says firmly.

He watches her with keen golden brown eyes. “They don’t leave bystanders hanging around. They like to be feared as boogeymen. If they didn’t take him, they killed him.”

The memory of the last time Bellamy looked at her, gun pressed to his head, flashes through her mind again.

The gunshot. The blood.

The stranger is still watching her, cataloguing her reaction and nodding quietly to himself as if he sees confirmation in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She pushes those images out of her mind and glares. “No.” She shakes her head. “I’m getting out of here. I’m going back to him.”

He sighs and swings his legs off his hammock, starting to walk away. “Alright. Expect them to shock you for longer this time.”

She almost disregards this, almost shakes her head and keeps going, but just then the smell from the pot cooking in the back of the room reaches her— it’s some sort of _meat_ , and her stomach immediately turns. She scrambles away from the smell, blindly pushing past people. No one looks at her; no one even flinches as she brushes by them, knocking the back door open with her shoulder and barely having the time to kneel in the mud outside before she throws up. 

There’s not much in it, because she hasn’t eaten recently, but it reminds her of one very important thing.

She’s pregnant.

And she just got _electrocuted_.

Her heart pounds as she stares at her own hands clutching onto the dirt. Oh god. Did the electricity travel that far? Could it have affected things? She knows the answer is yes. All those things are _possible_.

 _Did she just hurt her baby_?

She feels tears burning to her eyes, and claps a hand over her mouth as she feels nauseous again but now for completely different reasons.

She sits there for a few minutes, alone and with no one caring, and sobs silently into her hand. And then she takes a few deep breaths and tries to collect herself. The baby’s fine. Everything’s fine, and all she can do at this point is try to avoid any future risk.

Someone pulls her up later, a stranger, murmuring that it’s time to go to work and it’s her shift. She’s taken somewhere to help carry logs from a pile outside to a storehouse. She numbly follows instructions, does what she’s told for fear of being shocked again. It’s hard work, and she staggers under the weight of the end she has to carry, but she makes her legs move one in front of the other as she thinks. Eventually she comes to a reluctant, sad conclusion.

She can’t try to escape, because she can’t take the risk of shocking herself and hurting her— their— baby. She doesn’t have a choice except to stay. She can’t go back; she’s _trapped_ , and it’s an agonizing realization that tears her apart from the inside.

(There’s a small voice in her head that whispers that there isn’t anyone to go back to anyway.)

—

She’s exhausted that night, and falls asleep without eating. When she wakes up the next morning, it’s with another pounding headache and misery weighing down her soul.

Others are milling around their living space, and now that she’s stuck here for the time being, she’s got too many questions, tumbling into her mind all at once.

Her eyes seek out the stranger she was talking to yesterday, finding him in the corner of the room with a few other people who are preparing food. He’s currently chopping up a leafy dark green vegetable, and her stomach rumbles. She hasn’t eaten properly in a _while_.

She finds herself sliding off the hammock and padding over to him. He notices her when she stops next to him.

“Can I have some of that?” Her voice sounds meak, even to her own ears.

He examines her a moment and then wordlessly pushes the whole thing towards her. She grabs it and rips a piece of leaf off, shoving it into her mouth immediately. It’s spinach; this is good. Spinach has iron and folic acid and other nutrients that she really needs right now.

“Thank you,” Clarke says belatedly, after she realizes she’s just been wolfing it down in front of him. She’s spent so long interacting with only one other human being that she doesn’t even really remember how to _talk_ to people that aren’t him.

The boy nods in response, a small smile quirking on his lips, and then introduces himself abruptly. “Carlos.” He holds out a hand, rough and calloused but warm when she accepts it, shaking it as firmly as she can in her tired state. 

“I’m—” she almost tells him her real name, but then remembers herself at the last moment. She pauses for a fraction of a second as she’s about to tell him the first other name that comes to mind but she’s cut off.

“You’re Clarke,” he says. “They told us.” She blinks at him, and then realizes that Bellamy said her name when she was being captured.

Carlos doesn’t seem at all bothered by this. Her name is just that— a _label_. It doesn’t carry any weight. It’s meaningless to him; it’s meaningless to _all_ of these people. She’s a nobody here.

She’s reminded suddenly of the wish she whispered to Bellamy not too long ago. The irony of it all isn’t lost on her.

“What is this?” Clarke asks, desperate for answers at this point. “ _Where_ is this? I was— taken, and then I just woke up here and I don’t know what’s—”

He blinks slowly, reaching into a plastic bag to pull out an apple. He resumes chopping, and she follows the movements hungrily. “I don’t know where we are,” he replies.

“How long have you been here?”

“Going on two years. You can have some, if you want.”

Clarke doesn’t hesitate to grab a handful of apple slices. She’s hungry as hell but still registers his words after a moment, and pauses to gape. “Two _years_? And you don’t know where you are?” Silence. “Why are we all here?”

Carlos clucks his tongue. “You ran into a bit of bad luck by wandering into the Dry Zone by yourself, but then again we all did.” He shrugs and adds, “That is their territory they use to find new people. You were taken and sold to the highest bidder for whatever work they wanted you to do.”

“Sold,” Clarke repeats, dazedly. “To do what?”

“In our case, to help Jensen and his people try to ‘rebuild civilization’,” he says, making air-quotes. “Or, _their_ idea of civilization, anyway. They’re trying to build towns. For their people to live in.”

“Why would they go to the effort to kidnap people to do that? Couldn’t they just do it themselves?”

Carlos leans forward conspiratorially. “Haven’t you ever learned any history in your life? Civilizations are built on the backs of slave labourers. Post-apocalypse isn’t any exception. Look, it could be worse,” he tells her. “You’ve been assigned to lumber work. At least you’re not in the coal mines like me. Life maybe isn’t ideal here, but at least it’s okay. Us who are sold to Jensen, we’re treated relatively well. Compared to most of the others, we got a happy ending here.”

“And you’re content with that,” Clarke states. “You don’t care about trying to escape.”

He levels her with a flat look. “Don’t act like you know everything there is to know about this place. There have been mass attempts. They’ve all failed. The main perpetrators killed, or worse.”

Clarke blinks.

He leans in. “There are worse fates than living as a labourer. At least you weren’t sold to the Arena. Or for your body. Or sold for your organs.” He shudders a bit.

Clarke’s horror must show on her face. Carlos grins at her reaction, but there’s a bitter, sarcastic tinge on it.

“Welcome to the world of post-apocalypse human trafficking, _chica_.”

—

Eventually, Clarke finds herself falling into a rhythm against her will.

It’s hard work, but she pushes herself to do it. Once when she’s hefting a log, the man on the other end loses balance, crashing onto the ground. He’s instantly shocked by his collar, a small one, but one that draws a yelp from his lips. A guard comes forward and barks at him to get up.

So Clarke makes sure she never falls. Every time she sees someone get shocked, she feels anxiety race through her belly, and she has to stop herself from pressing a hand to her stomach. She’s a quiet and meek worker, two words no one would have ever used to describe her before.

She wishes she had the energy to think about escaping on her downtime, but she’s exhausted all the damn time and just wants to sleep. She can hardly keep awake enough to do the work as it is. She eats as much as she can, ravenous after so long. The prisoners are allowed to make their own food from the scraps from the agricultural section of the compound, so there’s enough food to keep her insides from clawing at her with hunger, which is a nice change. 

She tends to keep to herself, not trusting any of these people; not even Carlos, for the most part. They don’t speak too much after their initial introduction, anyway. He works in the coal mines at odd hours and she works on lumber. From snippets of conversations she hears from others, some work in construction, and the older or weaker ones in the town’s bar as servers. Although she doesn’t talk to any of them, she finds herself wondering what their stories are. How they all ended up here together.

And, of course, when night is pressing all around her eyes and ears she cries into the fabric of her hammock because she misses him.

She _misses_ him and every fiber of her being is constantly begging her to go find him, and yet she can’t. She can’t even try, because she has someone else to protect now.

—

One day, she collapses during work.

It starts out an ordinary day. She’s a little whoozy from throwing up a few times the night before. The morning sickness is happening less and less frequently, which means she’s slowly moving into the next trimester. So she didn’t expect that the small amount of meat she’d nibbled on for protein would make her so nauseous later.

Nothing she can do about it. She’s exhausted as usual, and today it’s her turn to chop wood into smaller pieces. She’s contemplated swinging this ax into the neck of a nearby guard, but there are about fifteen other guards with little remotes on their belts that can shock her before she could get any time to run.

So she dutifully chops wood. At some point, she stops to lean on the ax and wipe sweat from her brow. It’s sweltering out, and although she drank plenty of water today she can feel that her throat is parched.

“Get back to work,” she hears someone bark behind her. The voice sounds like it’s travelling through cotton to reach her ears. Slowly, she lifts the ax again, but suddenly it feels like it’s made out of pure lead and her hands lower slowly on their own.

She tips sideways and passes out.

She comes to while she’s being lifted off the ground by strong, sure arms, and her head lolls to the side. Her vision is fuzzy, and the figure holding her is looming in front of the sun. But she can see his silhouette has curly dark hair and brown skin.

Her heart pounds and she reaches with a hand towards the person carrying her. All she can think is, _Bellamy_. He’s here for her, to save her.

She tries to say his name, too, but the only thing that comes from her lips is a pained groan.

“I got you, _chica_ ,” is what she hears, and she flickers out of consciousness for another minute.

When she wakes up, she feels a lot more lucid. She’s back in the hammocked room, and lying on a hammock that’s close to the kitchen area. The single fan is pointed at her, blasting humid air that makes her clothes ruffle, cooling away the sweat on her forehead.

“Awake, I see,” Carlos says, and she jerks her head to see him standing by the stove watching her. He’s covered in dirt from head to toe; she can barely see the real tone of his skin, except for his hands, which look freshly washed. His hair is matted to his head by sweat. And it’s with a sinking feeling that Clarke realizes she’s stupidly mistaken him to be Bellamy.

Bellamy isn’t here for her. Not right now.

(Maybe not ever.)

She clears her throat and clambers clumsily off the hammock.

“Lie down,” Carlos orders. She’s too tired to argue, flopping back again. “I’m making you tea.” There’s a pot on the stove, steaming slightly. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Clarke licks her cracked lips, fruitlessly trying to instill moisture into them with a dry tongue. “What— what happened?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was at the mines when someone came and told me you fell. You were delirious, pushing everyone away who was trying to help. So they came to find me.”

She blinks slowly. “You?”

His eyes are on the teapot. “The others, they think that you trust me. Or rather, you _don’t_ trust me less than you don’t trust the others.” He grins, but it fades as he considers her. “They were right, by the way. You didn’t fight me when I came to help. You wrapped your arms around me instead.”

Clarke lowers her eyes, feeling a blush come to her cheeks. She knows his next question before he asks it.

“Why?”

“You helped me, on those first few days,” she mutters, picking at a thread on her shirt.

“A lot of people helped you,” Carlos counters. “I answered your questions, but others have been feeding you since then. Giving you clothes. Directions. You and I, we’ve hardly spoken.” Maybe Carlos sees her increasing distress, because his voice is exceedingly gentle when he asks, “May I ask why?”

She bites her lip and looks in the direction of the fan. She can pretend that the harsh blowing of air is the cause of the sudden stinging in her eyes. “You— you look like someone I used to know.”

There’s a small silence filled only with the humming of the fan. Carlos turns the heat down on the stove and pulls two metal cups from the grubby-looking cupboard, while Clarke’s heart pulses to a miserable beat.

Disturbingly, it’s a whole minute later before she realizes that she just spoke about Bellamy in the past tense. Horrified, she quickly corrects herself as she accepts the steaming cup of tea from Carlos. “I meant, you look like someone I _do_ know.”

Carlos raises his cup of tea to his lips. His brown eyes are pitying, and Clarke hates it. “You’re talking about _him_ , aren’t you.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her fingers tighten around the cup, metal almost searing hot on her fingers.

He sighs, lowering his own cup. “He’s dead, Clarke.” His use of her real name instead of _chica_ is what gets her, what makes her snap.

“He’s not dead.”

“What makes you so certain he is alive?” He cocks his head. “Did they let him go in front of you?”

The gunshot rings again in her head, and she has to remind herself to breathe for a moment. “No,” she says helplessly. Quite the opposite, really. “I— he _has_ to be.”

She doesn’t sound very certain, and Carlos knows it too. He doesn’t say anything else about it, just gestures to her cup and says, “Drink up.”

“What is this?” she asks, raising the cup to her lips and taking a sip. It tastes faintly sweet, sharp in a pleasant way.

“It’s a tea,” Carlos replies. “We used to make it all the time, back home. It helps boost energy. Which you clearly need.” He watches as she tips her head back to drink, and mumbles as an afterthought, “Also, helps prevent pregnancy.”

Clarke starts and jumps off the hammock, nearly losing balance on the thing since she’s gotten up so quickly, and the next moment she’s spitting the tea that’s in her mouth into the sink.

Carlos gapes. “What are you doing?”

She wheels around. “You couldn’t have told me that _before_?” she shrieks and turns back to spit into the sink. With shaking hands she turns on the tap and scoops water into her mouth, swishing around to get rid of anything else there.

She’s not taking any risk that she doesn’t have to. 

Carlos watches her do this with a look of utter bemusement on his face. “Whoa there,” he says, putting his hands up placatingly, “how was I supposed to know that you— wanted to get pregnant? You don’t even talk to anyone around here that I’ve seen let alone, well. And besides, that wouldn’t work. We get the shots, you know. Jensen doesn’t want pregnant women walking around.”

Clarke spits her water out and wheels on him again. “ _Shots_?” Her voice is very high pitched. “They gave me a birth control shot?”

His eyebrows are high on his forehead. “No,” he replies. “They don’t have the resources to give them to everyone. Only the men get it.”

She exhales, a small modicum of relief filling her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Carlos says hesitantly. “Not that it’s any of my business, but…” He looks reluctant, then shrugs. “Meh. Papa always said I was nosy. Were you trying to get pregnant?”

Clarke raises her gaze to his, and his mouth drops open. “ _Dios mio._ ” He’s suddenly looking at her with new eyes. “You’re… you’re _already_ pregnant, aren’t you?”

She looks back at the sink, bracing her hands against the counter and trying very hard not to cry. She’s been keeping it a secret for so long, and now hearing someone else say it with _shock_ , as if it’s a bad thing… she’s all at once overwhelmed with a feeling of loneliness. 

He goes on, clearly not seeing this. “Did you not have any way to stop it before?” She doesn’t answer, and after a moment he says slowly, “If you want, I’m sure there’s a way to—”

“I wanted it,” she snaps, turning her head to look at him.

He stares at her like she’s grown two extra heads.

She goes back to staring at the counter. “I was _trying_ to get pregnant.” Her voice wobbles, but she tries to keep it strong. “It took me so long. And now I _am_ pregnant, but I’m here, and…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

She hears Carlos sets down his cup, and then she feels his hand, warm and comforting, on her shoulder. “The father,” he says carefully. “Was he…”

She blinks away tears. “Yes,” she whispers. “The one I was with.”

He rubs her shoulder while she tries to get her breathing under control. “Maybe,” he says hesitatingly, “maybe he’s not dead. Who knows, right?”

This is the thing that breaks her. Carlos, who was so certain that Bellamy must be dead only a minute ago, is trying to comfort her by telling her something he knows is not true. He’s just trying to be kind, but right then she feels a weight settles onto her soul, a leaden weight with words carved into it: _He’s dead_. She lets out a helpless sob, pressing her face into her hands.

“Fuck,” she hears Carlos mutter in a slightly panicked way. She’s now crying without restraint, shoulders heaving and face contorted in sobs. “Fuck. Okay. Shh, it’s okay. Shh. The guards might come in here if you’re too loud and we don’t want questions, alright?” Clarke barely hears him, just shaking her head. She’s been keeping all of this anxiety and sadness in for so long, she’s not sure she _can_ stop now. “You know what I can do for you, _chica_? I’ve been here for a while. I can ask around about your— uh— friend. There are people here from all over the place and I know a lot of them. I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s seen him at the Market. We can find out.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to rein in the rest of her tears. She’s absorbed his words and they calm her a little bit. Having a plan grounds her. Carlos looks relieved.

“Just tell me his name,” he says gently. “You already said he looks like me— hair, skin? Is that it?” She nods, sniffling. “But what’s his name?”

Her mind goes blank. She has no idea what name he’d go by. Her own first instinct was to take a random one, so why wouldn’t he do the same? “I don’t know,” she murmurs without thinking.

“You don’t know his _name_?” Carlos repeats, incredulous. 

She realizes how that sounds and shakes her head, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know what he’d—” she sighs; it doesn’t really matter at this point, does it? “Bellamy,” she whispers. Saying his name out loud feels very odd; like it’s out of place here. “His name’s Bellamy.”

“Okay. See? That wasn’t so hard. I’ll ask around about your Bellamy.” He runs his hand soothingly along her shoulder.

Clarke nods, taking a deep breath.

“But in the meantime you need to go back to work. They’ll be coming around soon to get you otherwise, and trust me, you do _not_ want that.”

She nods again and pushes off the counter. Wobbles a bit on her feet. Carlos reaches out to steady her. “ _That’s_ why you’re so tired all the time,” he tsks. “And now, finally, I know the reason you’re so obsessed with spinach.”

She glances at him, sees the smirk on his mouth, and she feels marginally better.

—

It’s not two days later when she’s suddenly assigned to working in the town bar, the easy job reserved for the older prisoners. And she knows it’s not a coincidence.

All she has to do is quietly hand out food and drinks as requested, and look presentable. The people who dine here don’t give her a second glance. They see the collar on her neck and their gazes keep going past her as if she isn’t there at all.

Being a ghost has it’s benefits. She hears things.

It’s how someone nudges her and whispers, “that’s Jensen,” and she knows that’s the leader of this place so she turns to look. He’s a big man, bald, and he laughs loud. He likes to talk about the gladiator matches he sees at the Arena. He does a lot of betting on the fighters there. 

One might almost make the mistake of thinking Jensen is gentle, at least until one of the servers slip and food goes flying onto Jensen’s shirt, and without blinking he takes out his gun and shoots him.

It’s a common occurrence, apparently.

Despite the stress, she feels her strength returning, and she feels less tired. it’s a better job than working on lumber. She’s eternally grateful for the change.

—

She starts to spend more time with Carlos, and he seeks her out frequently. Now that he knows her secret, it just feels easier. And he’s a good person, she’s seeing that now. Most of the people here are older, and they’re closest in age. 

He brings her food, too. She starts to gain weight again, a healthy rosiness coming back to her cheeks after weeks of malnourishment. Carlos tells her that he’s quietly spread word about Bellamy, and that she should sit tight and wait for a response.

She sets down her bean dish at that news, suddenly overwhelmed.

“What is it?” Carlos asks.

“Why are you so nice to me?” The words fall from her lips almost childishly, but it’s a question she’s been wondering for a while. She’s done nothing for Carlos, and he’s done so _much_ for her. No one does that without wanting something in return.

He just tilts his head, smiles gently. ““You must be from a truly terrible place if you don’t recognize simple kindness.”

 _I am_ , she wants to say. _I am_.

—

As time goes on she realizes that many of the other prisoners here respect Carlos, even though he’s young. He’s not discriminatory with his kindness; he helps everyone, and in turn, he is friends with them all. It’s the reason why he’s able to put out information and get it back quickly, but when Clarke asks him if that’s why he is so kind, to get contacts in return, he just laughs.

“So cynical, _chica_. I grew up in a place where we all helped our neighbours, no matter if you got helped back.”

Sounds fake. “Sounds wonderful.”

“It was,” he says, a dreamy expression crossing his face.

Her curiosity gets the better of her. “Where was that?”

“West of here,” he replies. “By the sea. Just a little village, and no one ever bothered us. I didn’t even see people from _outside_ our surrounding villages until I was twelve and joined the group making supply runs.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “A few years later, and we stumbled into the Dry Zone by accident, and well. You know what happened.”

She does.

(She misses Bellamy.)

“And what about you?” he asks, downing his tin cup of water. “Where did you come from?”

“East,” Clarke replies. It’s only half of a lie, really. 

“The bloody East,” Carlos says, spreading his arms with a dramatic flair. “That’s what people call it, you know.”

“They do?” she asks.

“Around here, yes,” one of Carlos’ eavesdropping friends says, poking his head above the material of his hammock. “Not anymore, though. We’ve heard things. All the Easterners got together for something a few weeks ago and something went wrong. Isn’t that right, Carlos?”

“Yeah,” Carlos says with a laugh. “Something went wrong. Apparently they all got blown to hell, or something. They’re just stories,” he says quickly, misreading the look on Clarke’s face. “Rumours we’ve heard, that fly through here. Probably not even true.”

Clarke doesn’t want to think about the aftermath of her and Bellamy’s failed execution. “How do you know these things?”

Carlos shrugs. “A handful of Easterners have stumbled into our midst before. They were violent and harsh. Slow to adapt here. Mostly got killed quickly or sent somewhere dangerous to die quickly.” He studies her. “You’re not like them.”

“Mhmm,” is all Clarke offers. She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t press any further.

(She really misses Bellamy.)

—

Weeks later, Carlos quietly tells her that no one’s heard of a Bellamy and that he’s sorry and maybe he went under a different name?

Clarke just shakes her head. She didn’t expect it, not really. There’s a stupid part of her that always clings to hope, but it too is starting to let go.

She practically saw him get shot in the head, and she wonders sometimes why that isn’t enough to fully convince her.

—

She panics when she starts showing.

It’s just a little bump, but she knows it will grow bigger in no time. She starts wearing shirts a size or two too big, not wanting to make it known.

Carlos notices. “You’ll want to hide it as long as you can,” he tells her lowly, chewing his bottom lip with worry.

She swallows, not wanting to know but asking anyway. “What will they do if they find out?”

“Well, they won’t be happy. But look,” he adds hastily when her face crumples, “Jensen is cruel but I don’t know that he’s _that_ cruel. He’ll probably allow you to have your baby, and he’ll own them too. Two for one, what a deal right?” he smiles at her and pats her little baby bump fondly. “At least we know the little one’s growing up nicely.”

“Yeah,” Clarke mutters.

—

The first time she feels a slight flutter in her stomach, she’s excited for a mere moment. She wants to shout _Bellamy! Come over here, the baby’s moving_!

But then she remembers that he’s not here to experience this with her, and she deflates.

She thinks about what she’s going to do when the baby’s born. She’ll have to raise them by herself, something she never counted on. She doesn’t know if she can. She doesn’t want them to be born a slave, either. There are so many things wrong with this situation, but the thing that gets her most is the thought that they won’t know their father.

She’s overwhelmed with a fresh wave of grief. Her child will never know _Bellamy_.

—

She dreams of him. 

Sometimes, she dreams of the cold metal of the gun, flashing in the sun as it presses to his skull. The way his eyes closed. In her dreams, nobody moves in front of her to shield her eyes from what happens next. The trigger is always pulled in full view, and she’ll watch blood and brain matter spray wildly into the sand. She’ll stand there for a while, immobilized, and watch the wind carry the bloody sand away, watch the sand blow over them, gradually covering his dead body.

But no sand covers his face. His eyes are open and unseeing, staring into Clarke’s soul as they whisper, _You failed me, too_.

Other times, the dreams are a blissful fantasy. She sees flashes of his dark eyes and messy curls, the smooth baritone of his voice skating over her spine and filling her with delight. 

She dreams of the future: Of a little, freckled baby bouncing on his knee, and his arms around her as they sit happily on the edge of a cliff. 

She dreams of the past: Of the motorbike they rode from one Hell into another on. They’ll ride down the highway and when they stop, he’ll turn around to kiss her, but the moment before their lips touch she wakes up.

And she realizes no, he’s not here; he’s _gone_. Those are the nights she _really_ cries, muffling her sobs into the cloth of her hammock.

The day she realizes that she’s started dreaming about Bellamy in the same pattern that she dreams about the rest of her people is the day she will later pinpoint as the day she thinks she really starts to accept it.

Bellamy is gone. Clarke Griffin is the sole survivor of her people.

On those nights when her thoughts go to truly dark places, she ghosts a hand over her stomach and reminds herself, that’s not true. 

—

Having sex dreams about someone she used to know isn’t part of that pattern, though. But she dreams that with Bellamy once or twice too. He’ll be touching her— sometimes he’s got his hand between her legs, murmuring something filthy against her breast, and she wakes up feeling aroused and simultaneously horribly _guilty_.

—

Despite it all, she’s a functional human being most of the time. But sometimes even in the daylight things get her down. She usually makes the excuse to herself of prenatal depression when this happens. Times when Carlos brings his friends from the coal mine into the bar at the end of the day, and they share stories.

She’ll fade away from the conversation and remember, _I was right_.

Carlos’ friend tugs on her elbow, laughing something loud into her ear, but she doesn’t hear it.

She just remembers. _I loved him to death_.

—

Her belly keeps growing, and it’s a little harder to hide. But she calms herself by thinking about Aurora Blake, who hid her pregnancy right up until she gave birth. If Bellamy’s mother could do it, then so can Clarke. 

She gets in the habit of slouching over over most of the time, and wears looser clothes. She must be somewhere close to twenty weeks, and with the realization comes renewed desperation to get out of here.

She asks about the shock collars for about the millionth time.

Carlos just shakes his head. “Even if somehow we got past all the guards with their guns—”

“How do they _have_ so many guns?” she asks. “Where did it all come from, all this technology?”

Carlos tips his head back thoughtfully. “After the bombs, there were limited supplies left, from what I hear,” he tells her. “First come, first serve. They came first.”

“Okay, so the shock collars,” she says impatiently.

“We’ve tried dismantling them,” he tells her. “We’ve tried short-circuiting them. We’ve tried rusting them.”

“It never worked?”

“Not before someone got electrocuted to death.”

“Don’t they ever take them off us? For maintenance or something?”

“Once a year,” Carlos replies. “They drug us first. We’re asleep the whole time.”

A year is too long. “There’s got to be a way,” Clarke murmurs. “To— I don’t know, disrupt their signal or something.”

“Perhaps,” Carlos allows. “But none of us here are exactly mechanics. Most of us had never even seen a _gun_ before we got captured.”

“I had a friend who was a mechanic,” Clarke says without thinking.

He blinks. She doesn’t normally talk about her past. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t expect herself to want to talk, but suddenly that’s all she wants to do. “Yeah,” she replies softly. “Her name was Raven.”

She tells Carlos about Raven. And over many nights as they lounge in the adjacent hammocks, she tells him about the others, too. She starts with Raven, then talks about Finn, and Wells and Monty and Jasper and Harper and Monroe and Lexa and Anya and Lincoln and Sinclair and the list goes on and on. She doesn’t talk about the things that happened to them; no, she talks about the kind of people they were, and the things they liked to do. She tells Carlos the funniest stories from the Dropship days, talking as if her friends were characters in a story because it makes it easier to tell. And as she does, she feels a certain tightness she didn’t even know was there leave her chest. A hand that was squeezing her heart that gradually lets go, the more she talks about them.

(She doesn’t talk about Bellamy though. Clarke isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to talk about _him_.)

Carlos is a good listener, flopping onto his stomach and watching her speak with rapt attention. Sometimes the stories get difficult to tell because she remembers what happened the very next day, and when the words get stuck in her throat, he takes over, and tells her stories about the people _he_ used to know, too.

He tells her about his home by the sea, and he gets out a piece of paper and draws it for her. She sees a dreamy expression cross his face as he points out all the landmarks, the palm trees, and describes the almost-white sand. And of some things that are left from before the bombs— graffitied, colourful fragments of concrete wall still standing by the beach.

“But what about you?” he asks her after. “Where do you call home?” He pushes the paper over to her, like he’s expecting her to draw a place, too.

But when he says _home_ , the first thing that comes to mind is Bellamy. For the longest time, he’s been her place to come home to. She looks down at the paper Carlos has pushed in front of her and thinks about how she’d draw him; with a smile on his face, one so big it makes the skin at the edges of his eyes crinkle up. His hair would be curly and messy but clean, and his freckles would be prominent in the sunlight. She wants to remember him like that forever.

A gunshot reverberates through her head again, and she just smiles sadly and pushes the paper back at Carlos. “I don’t have a home,” she tells him softly. “Not anymore.”

—

Carlos gets hurt one day in the mines.

She hears something about the ceiling collapsing in on the workers, and that night she pushes people aside to find him lying in his hammock, leg bleeding out. He’s startlingly pale, breathing shallow and eyes closed, fluttering lightly.

“We don’t know how to fix him,” one of the others cries. They’re all looking very worried as they crowd around him.

“I do,” Clarke says, and everyone looks at her, the girl who slouches around in her loose shirts and is quiet and sad all of the time, how she speaks now with authority and confidence.

“Bring me thread,” Clarke commands, ignoring the looks and pushing up her sleeves. “Moonshine. Bandages, if you have them, or just clean cloth will do. A pail of water. Scissors…” she keeps going, rattling off items, and she sees the way they start to look at her differently.

Like she is a leader, to be treated with respect.

It’s late in the night when Carlos finally stirs, blearily looking down at his leg. The long gash has been sewn up and bandaged neatly, and Clarke Griffin is half asleep at his bedside.

“I didn’t know you were a healer,” he says, and Clarke starts out of sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he says, wincing as he tries to move his leg.

“Good,” Clarke says briskly. “I’ll need to change your bandages tomorrow, but for now you should rest. And I’m not a healer, by the way.” At his words, her mind has gone back to the School of Medicine sign she’d seen at the university before everything went to shit, and the memory makes her voice go soft and sad.

“But you have experience.” He states it as a fact. “When people get injured in the mines, they don’t usually get better, you know. I should have been a goner.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything.

“So in my books, _chica_ , you’re a healer. Thank you.”

She busies herself by wrapping thread back around its spool. “Maybe I’m just trying to pay back my endless debt to you.”

“Maybe,” Carlos allows. When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “Or maybe you’re a good person.”

She half-laughs. Carlos asks her what’s funny, but she just shakes her head.

—

After that day, she reluctantly becomes the resident healer. Prisoners come to her with their headaches, stomach pains, and small injuries, and Clarke does her best to care for them. Mostly they are dehydrated or just ate spoiled food. They’re simple problems to solve, as she tries to tell them, but they continue to revere her as some sort of doctor. Carlos clapping her on the back and starting drunken toasts to her healing prowess every few nights doesn’t help to dissuade them.

She thinks of her mom, all the education she’d gone through to earn “Doctor” in front of her name. Clarke hasn’t done any of that. She doesn’t deserve the title.

—

It’s a normal working day at the bar, and she’s just wiping down the counter and listening to Jensen talking about the latest gladiator match, and idly dreaming about smothering him with the washcloth (She saw how he shocked one of the older ones when they weren’t doing anything wrong, just for the fun of seeing them writhe in pain.).

She’s wrenched out of her idle dreaming when she hears him mention, “... Jaha.”

Her head snaps up. 

“...He’s one strong bastard, I’ll give him that. He’s taken down gladiators twice his size without breaking a sweat. He’s a natural born killer.” He sounds almost proud. “I made so much money betting on that one in the early days, I did.”

The one he’s talking to laughs, and no one seems to notice how Clarke has gone stiff and slack-jawed.

Except one. “You okay?” whispers one of the women she’s working with.

She whips her head towards the other, and the woman’s face balks. Clarke knows how she looks right now. Like a madwoman. “The one gladiator they’re talking about,” she hisses, “what’s his—”

“Oh,” the woman says. “Yes. At the Arena. Jensen took me there once, as part of his entourage, and I got to see him fight. He’s impressive. _And_ impressively good looking, that Augustus Jaha.” Someone yells at them from the bar, and Clarke’s co-worker jumps and immediately goes to serve whoever’s barking at them.

If someone yelled at Clarke right now to go get them a drink, she’d be shot or electrocuted for disobeying orders. But luckily, no one does.

No one notices that her blood has frozen solid in her veins, and her heart is galloping at double time to the same, near-disbelieving, joyous beat:

 _Bellamy_.

—

_THREE MONTHS AGO_

—

Bellamy for _sure_ thought he was a goner.

There were two of them on him— a man and a woman, and the man was on top of him. The gun was already pressed to Bellamy’s head, and the man above him about to pull the trigger, when something truly miraculous happens.

He _slips_.

It’s a fraction of a second, but one that Bellamy uses, twisting his body viciously to get out of the way of the barrel of the gun.

He succeeds only _somewhat_.

The gun goes off, and pain explodes through Bellamy’s shoulder. The kidnapper fumbles with his gun again, but Bellamy has rage on his side.

The two of them grapple for a second, but in the end when the kidnapper pointed the gun back at Bellamy, Bellamy grabs the man’s hands and directs the gun elsewhere— at the woman’s foot.

She screams in pain, dropping her own weapon. Bellamy is left with enough time to fight one-on-one with the man. Dimly he’s aware of the van holding Clarke inside screeching off into the distance, but if he gets out of here quickly he can follow them.

The woman he’d shot in the foot is limping rapidly towards the second van, getting inside and revving the engine. She’s apparently already decided to leave the one Bellamy’s currently fighting for dead.

Bellamy wins the gun in his opponent’s hand at the same time that _he_ manages to pull out a needle out of _nowhere_ and stabs Bellamy in the neck with it.

Bellamy instantly feels his legs turn to jelly, but he’s got enough presence of mind in the seconds before he drops to his knees to shoot the kidnapper square in the head.

(Despite his earlier wish not to kill, he’ll never hesitate to when it comes to _her_.)

Then they both fall to the ground together.

The last thing Bellamy sees are two vans, driving off into the sunset and kicking up sand that obscures their tracks.

 _Clarke_ , he thinks.

He passes out.

—

When he comes to, the sun is peeking back over the horizon.

He’s alone with the body of the kidnapper, lying in the man’s blood.

Clarke, he thinks wildly. They took _Clarke_.

He panics.

He searches the kidnapper, for maps, for papers, for something, _anything_ that might give him a clue. He doesn’t find anything at all. So he takes the dead man’s clothes and leaves his body to rot in the dust.

He gets on the motorbike and drives in the direction he saw the vans go, and drives and drives and _drives_ until the bike runs out of power. He doesn’t wait for it to charge. He tugs it along as he walks, or rather staggers, for a while before he realizes his shoulder is throbbing and there’s still a bullet in it and yeah, he’s been losing blood without noticing and should probably treat that before he—

Passes out again.

—

He doesn’t wake up in the sand this time. He wakes up in a wooden cabin, lying on his stomach on a set of furs. He brings a hand up and feels bandages on his back.

“Awake now, I see.”

He turns and there’s an old woman with grizzled grey hair sitting in this room, on an overturned basket. She’s elbow-deep in soapy water in a pail, and she doesn’t even look at him.

He struggles to get up immediately. “Who are you? Are you one of them?”

“One of who? The Sandmen? No,” she replies. “Although, I can tell you had a run-in with them.” She nods to the clothes he’s still wearing, the garment he took off the kidnapper. “You’re lucky I found you before they did.”

“Why did you take care of me?” Bellamy asks guardedly. He’s not sure he believes anything she’s saying. As he speaks, his eyes cast around the cabin, cataloguing what he can. It’s a quaint little place, with animal hides and strange artifacts hanging on the walls. There’s a door on the side that’s slightly ajar, giving him a window into a room, filled with tables, that’s beyond it.

She huffs. “I was _looking_ for herbs. But when I find someone, I take them back with me. And when they wake up, I tell them, my drinks are cheap. Two-for-one. Make good money off of strays like you who wander through the Dry Zone.”

Great. Just another post-apocalyptic venue to get drunk. He really should’ve known by now. Discarding that, Bellamy latches onto another piece of information. “The Dry Zone,” he repeats.

She tips her head in acknowledgment. “This desert.”

“What is it? What’s the— Sandmen? Where do they take people?” He asks.

She yawns. “There’s a reason they don’t bother me, and it’s because I don’t talk.”

Bellamy’s silent for a moment. Then he stands.

“Where are you going?” the store owner asks.

Bellamy leans down to grab his pack where it’s been discarded on the floor. “Someone was taken from me,” he mutters. “I have to go find them.”

“At least buy a drink first.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I take information.”

Bellamy pauses halfway out the door and turns. “Do you _sell_ information?”

Her beady eyes fix on him keenly. “For a price.”

She sounds like she already knows what her price is, and Bellamy crosses his arms. “What?”

“Like I said, I take information,” she replies. And then, abruptly: “Are you from the Sky?”

His slight hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed.

She nods to herself. “Sky people are a myth. Stories to keep children in bed at night, or to entertain a crowd. Or so they say. I like your jacket,” she says. “ _Ark_ issue.”

He sees his jacket hanging on the wall, and strides forward to grab it. She’s looked at the label. Bellamy glances back at her. She’s a wily old woman, he’ll give her that.

He doesn’t confirm or deny any of it; instead, he says, “Any other price you’ll take?”

She nods at him. “I’ll take that ring in your pocket.”

Bellamy’s hand flies to his pocket immediately, fingers closing on it to reassure himself it’s still there, metal warmed by the heat of his thigh. He’s never parting with this ring until it finds it’s way to Clarke’s finger. “What do you want to know about the Sky?” he asks flatly. The old woman cracks a grin, pulling her thick forearms out of the sudsy water.

—

She drives a hard bargain, but Bellamy’s not an idiot. He tells her things about the Ark, but purposely leaves out exciting bits. He knows they’re exciting to her because she leans forward in anticipation, and then Bellamy stops and asks for his own information in exchange. He sees a glimmer of respect in her eyes when she relents to his deal.

He finally learns about the Sandmen.

“They take people,” the old woman says as she pours herself a drink. She doesn’t ask if Bellamy wants one, and he doesn’t, anyways. “They’ve been doing it since before the bombs. But after the bombs, everyone scattered, you know. Chaos. Business boomed. No one knows quite where they take them. But _I’m_ not no one, I know what happens. They’re sold. And that’s where the trail goes cold.” She shrugs. “They take people who wander through here that they think won’t be missed. People who are nobodies. They put them in their vans and they take them far away, and you’ll never see them again.” There’s a strange edge to her voice.

“Sounds like you’re talking from personal experience,” Bellamy notes.

She bares her surprisingly white teeth at him, and he knows he’s struck a nerve. “Finish your story about the Mountain Men.”

He tells her parts of it. Leaves out the parts of the story that make him want to vomit. As he goes on it occurs to him, from the way she’s tilting her head and listening, eyes glazing over a bit when he goes over a dull part, that she might not actually _believe_ they are true. She thinks that his stories are just fairy tales. They certainly sound wild enough; so he tells her enough to fuel her imagination, an imagination he thinks probably lends itself to stories that keep her customers enraptured when they come in.

When it’s his turn to ask again, he says, “Where do I find these people— these Sandmen?”

“Stay around these parts long enough by yourself out in the open, and they’ll take you too. Best leave the Dry Zone if you want to live, my boy.”

“I can’t,” Bellamy says. “Not yet.” He stands up abruptly, rolling his injured shoulder. 

She watches him wearily. “I know what you’re thinking. You want to go after them.” She takes his silence as confirmation. “Whoever they took from you, they’re as good as dead. Move on. It’s not worth it.”

He hoists his pack higher on his shoulder and it strikes him as ridiculous that she thinks it’s not _worth_ it.

He’s got nothing left. He’s literally got _nothing_ to lose here, and everything to gain.

Clarke.

His heart aches. It’s been a day and a half, but he misses her like she’s been gone for years.

She’s okay, he tells himself. She’s okay, and their unborn child is okay, and they’ll all be together again soon. He just has to find her.

As he heads out the door and into the sweltering sun, the old woman calls out one last warning. “You’re making the wrong choice.”

He almost laughs, because it’s by far the _easiest_ choice he’s ever made.

—

He takes the motorbike, and drives aimlessly around the desert for days. He makes campfires in the centres of valleys, making sure the smoke is thick and travels high. He does everything in his power to make it quite obvious he’s here.

It takes some time for them to find him, but when they do, he’s prepared.

The white vans approach silently while he’s pretending to be asleep, and he makes a half-hearted attempt to escape.

“Look what we have here,” he hears one of the Sandmen jeer, as his hands get wrenched behind his back. They’re different from the ones that took Clarke. “Now what were _you_ doing wandering around the Dry Zone by yourself?”

They don’t wait for an answer. He feels a pinch on his arm, and then he falls unconscious.

—

He wakes up in a rather strange place, stripped of his guns.

He’s in a cage, a big one, and it’s full of people. They’re strangers, looking panicked and rattling on the bars and yelling. Bellamy shuts out the sounds and pushes past the bodies in front of him to peer out.

There are people on the other side of the bars staring back at him. They look well-cared for, with straight hair and clean faces and papers in their hands. They murmur to each other, not taking their eyes off the prisoners, and papers exchange hands; hands are shaken; and prisoners are tugged out of the cage one by one.

They’re being sold.

Bellamy holds onto the bars and keeps his eyes looking around him, searching for a glimpse of blonde hair. 

But nothing.

He feels disappointment settle like a pit into his stomach.

Before he can focus too much on that, he hears someone say in front of him, “Now, this is a nice one.”

He turns back, and he sees two people staring back at _him_ , now.

“The bidding can start high,” the woman comments clinically, her eyes surveying him from head to toe. “Strong, this one. Well built. Suitable for labour or other purposes.”

God, is this how they looked at Clarke? Catalogued her physique like she was cattle? Bellamy’s distaste at this twists his expression, and the man notices.

The stranger leans forward. “What’s your name?”

“Fuck you,” Bellamy replies.

“Careful there,” he’s told breezily. “You may regret how you act towards us. We determine your future, you see.”

 _I’m telling my own damn story_.

“Iristus might like this one,” the other says.

“That’s right,” the man replies, not taking his eyes off of Bellamy. “Iristus has a... _liking_ for handsome young men.” He leers, and it makes Bellamy’s skin crawl.

Bellamy spits at him in response.

“Or maybe not,” the woman says. “Too much fight in him for that. Jensen will probably take him, he uses shock collars to keep his in line anyway.” She nods like it’s settled.

“Hmm,” says the man, wiping Bellamy’s spit off the front of his shirt. “Maybe. But I have another idea.” He snarls a grin, one that tells Bellamy that he’s going to regret his insolence. “Give his information to the Ringmaster.”

—

Some time later, Bellamy finds himself shackled by the ankles and packed into another van with several others. He doesn’t put up too much of a fight; he’s still going with this, hoping that he can find Clarke this way.

When the doors open, Bellamy still hasn’t succeeded in drawing any conversation out of the other prisoners he’s here with. 

It’s no longer just desert here; there’s dense forest and a mountain in the distance. He barely has time to take in the view before he’s pushed forward with the barrel of a gun.

They’re stripped and searched and he’s given a pair of cotton pants to wear. He spits out the ring he’s been keeping under his tongue while they patted him down and tucks it into his new pocket.

The new prisoners are lined up, connected by ankle shackles to each other, and a woman walks in front of them. She’s tall, muscular, with long dark hair brought up in a ponytail high on her head.

Her eyes are dark and narrowed. Bellamy’s seen enough cruelty in the world to know that this woman doesn’t lack it.

“Welcome to the Arena,” she tells them briskly. “I am the Ringmaster.”

Someone, a young woman next to Bellamy, speaks. “Please,” she begs, “Please, let me go, I just want to go _home_.”

The Ringmaster nods at one of the guards; he steps forward and shoots the girl. The bang is loud in Bellamy’s ears, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the sound.

The girl drops to the ground.

All the prisoners have quieted now, looking with new, wide eyes at the woman in front of them.

“I do not tolerate weakness,” she says conversationally, as if nothing had happened. “My arena is well known for having the strongest gladiators and most entertaining matches. I won’t have my reputation soiled. Most of you will die early,” and when she says this the man on the other side of Bellamy shudders in fright. “But some of you will fight and live on, and become one of my prized fighters who are known throughout the region. You can take pride in that, in what your life will have become.” She looks down at the dead girl, and then her eyes go sharply to Bellamy, looking him up and down with interest. “You. What’s your name?”

He spends a fraction of a second thinking about giving the same answer he’d delivered the last time he was asked, but something about standing barefoot in the pooling blood of someone who’d just been shot makes him decide not to.

He doesn’t answer with the truth, though. But he answers after latching on to the one thing in the woman’s speech that matters— _Known throughout the region_.

This is it, he thinks. This is his best shot at getting a message to Clarke, wherever she is.

“Augustus,” he speaks, stoic as ever. “Augustus Jaha.”

—

His first fight is hard on him. Not because it’s a hard fight to win, no; but because they _clearly_ gave him a weaker opponent.

He’s shoved into the Arena, a space as small as a boxing stadium, and sees people, so many _people_ , shouting at him from outside the bars. There’s got to be at least a hundred packed around the match, waving little slips of paper.

They’re betting.

The Ringmaster gave him someone weak to fight to instill confidence in the betters, that much is clear. He squares off, and recognizes his opponent as one of the ones he was captured with. There’s a frightened, animalistic look in the scrawny man’s eye as he grips his dagger tightly.

“We don’t have to fight,” Bellamy tells him lowly.

The man lunges, clumsy and telegraphing. Bellamy easily dodges, and tries to talk him down again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bellamy says. “They _want_ us to fight. We don’t have to do that. We can figure a way out of here on our own.”

The man stabs at him, and Bellamy realizes he’s not getting through to his opponent.

He only dodges for a while, at least until his injured shoulder makes him hesitate. And then the man’s blade cuts his skin and Bellamy hisses from the pain, staggering back a bit. The crowd cheers.

Bellamy stops holding back after he realizes he might actually _die_ here.

And he _can’t_ die, not yet. He has to get to Clarke, and that means he has to kill this man. He has to kill this person who is just trying to survive. Bellamy refuses to leave Clarke alone in this world. He doesn’t have a choice, and it’s a _miserable_ realization. 

His opponent lunges forward and this time Bellamy easily gets him into an underarm headlock.

The skinny man gasps for breath, stabbing wildly with his knife. Bellamy grits his teeth as he feels a shallow cut in his thigh.

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy gasps, feeling anguished tears prick at his eyes. He tenses his arms and brings them up in a jerking movement, breaking the man’s neck in one motion.

The crowd roars in delight. Bellamy lays the desperate man he’s just killed gently down into the dirt and bows his head, thinking that the old Grounder words _your fight is over_ are a little too appropriate here.

—

After that, Bellamy goes through countless fights, ones that meld into a blur after a while. He can see that in comparison to the rest of them, he’s just a better fighter. He wonders what kind of lives his opponents are from, that they never had to learn how to fight.

He envies them for that, a little bit. Even while he’s stabbing them in the heart.

—

All the gladiators are kept in isolation from one another, so Bellamy spends his time in between matches staring at his cell wall.

Is his plan working? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where Clarke is, who she was sold to, or if she’s already…

But no. He refuses to let himself think that. She’s alive somewhere. And he just hopes that she’ll get his message.

—

Bellamy gets _tired_. He’s tired of killing. He’s tired of being the golden child of the Ringmaster, who likes to parade him around at her extravagant parties like he’s a zoo animal for people to look at. He’s tired of being kept cooped up in this dark, windowless room, chained by the ankle to the wall.

When that last thought comes to mind, Octavia’s voice echoes indignantly, faintly in his head: _You think_ that’s _bad? Try living under the floor for sixteen years_!

Hearing her voice this time, strangely, doesn’t make him want to cry. It makes him want to be _strong_. For her. 

And that’s how he gets through the next few months, his sister’s shouted encouragement, like she’s a drill sergeant in his head every time he falls down in the Arena.

 _Oh come on Bell, you’ve play-wrestled with_ children _with more strength than that. Looks like you’re losing your touch_ , his sister taunts.

He spits out blood and staggers to his feet. 

When he gains the upper hand and slides his knife under the ribs of his next opponent, he likes to think she’d be proud of him.

—

Clarke sprints to the barracks that night, barely looking where she’s going.

She runs straight into Carlos, who catches her as she stumbles into his chest. “Whoa, _chica_ , slow down, there’s still plenty of spinach tonight to go around for everyone.” His voice is tender and humorous, but he pauses when he sees the look on her face. He sucks in a breath. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke imagines she must look pale as a sheet right now. “Carlos,” she gasps, dizzy from her run, “how does someone become part of Jensen’s entourage? For when he goes to the Arena?”

Carlos’ eyebrows raise damn near his hairline and then understanding crosses his features. “Ah, shit.”

—

Carlos is shocked by it all, of course, but his contacts pull some strings, and next thing she knows she’s called forward on the list of names of prisoners being sent with Jensen on his next trip to the Arena. She’ll be expected to wait on him hand and foot while they’re there, but Clarke doesn’t mind.

The fight he’s going to watch doesn’t involve Augustus Jaha, to her disappointment. But if she’s _there_ , then she can find him.

And she can reassure herself that he’s alive. That this nightmare she’s been living— this nightmare she thought would never end— is finally _over_.

—

The trip to the Arena is a few hours long. Clarke sits in the back of a van. It’s not the kind of van she came in; it’s not a cell. She’s simply sitting in the backseat of what almost looks absurdly like a family vehicle.

She and the others sit meekly and quietly in their seats, even though the five of them outnumber the two guards Jensen’s brought along with him. She’s found that that’s what he looks for in a prisoner to bring along with him— someone who’s not caused too much trouble before. Miraculously, Clarke fits with that description. She’s only tried to escape the one time, but pretty much all of the prisoners have _that_ particular mark on their records.

They drive past a sign that says Boulder Mountain, and then a building rises out of the horizon. From the outside, it looks like a smaller, less grand version of the Roman Coliseum.

In a different situation, she imagines he’d of been delighted to see this place, as a lover of history. She’d have poked Bellamy in the side and said teasingly, _Look! Dreams do come true, after all_.

And he’d laugh and say, _Shut up, Clarke_.

She can imagine his voice, still crystal clear, in her head. She hasn’t heard that smooth baritone in so long. Hasn’t seen that smile. Or the warmth of his eyes when he gazes at her. Or the feel of his hand on her skin, comfortably warm as his fingers span almost her entire back.

Excitement begins to mount in her. She’s so close. All she wants to do is jump out of this van and run straight to him.

But she has to be smart about this. The collar on her neck feels like a part of her by now, but she’s always painfully aware that it’s there, if only because it’s the only reason she hasn’t tried to leave again.

The inside of the Arena is much less grand— it’s grubby, all dull metal and stained floors. It reminds her of the Ark, in some ways. There are people, people, so many people, and none of them give Clarke or the other prisoners a second glance as they follow Jensen through the crowd.

Jensen settles in to watch the match. Clarke and the others are ushered to another room, where they’re immediately set to preparing drinks for the spectators.

Clarke spends a bit of time serving, and as always, fantasizes about slipping poison in. If she had any. When things start to get really busy, and the match begins, enrapturing the guards, she pauses and slips out of the room.

She walks briskly, like she’s going somewhere, just in case. But she hardly passes anyone in the halls. She wanders until she finds a flight of stairs down, and as she descends she hears the roar of the crowd grow fainter and fainter and the darkness of the floor under the Arena begins to swallow her up.

She knows she’s found the right place immediately. There are many thick metal doors, very widely spaced apart, down this long, winding hallway. They are barred, and inside she sees people. One per cell.

They see her, too.

One lunges towards the bars, clinging on. “Please,” they say desperately, “please, let me out. I don’t want to fight. I don’t even _know_ how to fight.” Clarke draws closer helplessly as the girl inside starts to cry. Clarke pulls at the door, but it’s locked with thick chains. “Please,” the girl sobs again, and Clarke has the sudden desire to run upstairs, find a guard, take his keys so she can let this woman out. But she can’t.

She came down to Hell for one person, and if that makes her selfish so be it.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke replies, a bitter taste in her mouth, and continues her journey down the hall. If the girl says anything after that, Clarke doesn’t hear it.

She tries to go quietly after that, pausing after each cell to peer inside. The hallway is curved, and it quickly becomes apparent that it goes in a circle, leaving all the cells widely spaced apart. They’re dark on the inside, so it’s hard to see past the shadows in the far corners of each cell.

That’s how she almost misses him.

It’s a cell at the very end of the hall, and she’s looking inside but doesn’t see anyone there. There’s a sinking feeling weighing down her stomach— maybe she didn’t think this through at all— but then again what are the chances of someone being called _Augustus Jaha_?— and she leans against the wall for a moment, overwhelmed.

She hears a cough from the cell she just looked in.

She jerks her head in that direction. It’s silent again. Maybe she imagined it. But no— she strains her ears, really hard, focusing past the faint, faint sounds of the fight upstairs in the Arena. There’s definitely breathing, and maybe there’s the outline of someone against the far wall of the cell. She opens her lips and pauses before she whispers a plea in the darkness:

“Bellamy?”

The breathing she hears stops for a moment. She imagines him turning her way.

It’s dead silent. She draws closer, touches a hand against the bars. “Bellamy, is that you?”

And then his voice sounds out, the sweetest thing she thinks she’s ever heard:

“ _Clarke_?”

She releases a sob she didn’t realize she was holding in, feeling her expression crumple and her hand press to her mouth. She presses her face to the bars. “ _Bellamy_.”

She hears the clanking of chains as he moves, and then he’s in front of her, staring as if he’s watching a ghost. She feels like she’s doing the same.

She’s just taking him in.

He looks the same as always. His hair is a longer than it was before, flopping over his eyebrows and hiding his ears, and there’s scruff on his face, but it’s him. It’s Bellamy.

She sobs again, unable to speak, and it makes her entire body shudder. His hand comes out tentatively to touch her hand that is clutching so tight onto one of the bars.

His touch is gentle as always against her knuckle, making her knees buckle, and she sinks to the ground. He follows her there, lowering himself as well.

“You got my message,” he breathes, eyes fixed on her as if he can’t quite believe she’s standing in front of him.

She lets out another sob. “I thought you were _dead_.” He reaches through the bars and interlaces her fingers with his. It sends a warm, heavy feeling down her spine— a feeling of _rightness_. 

“Hey,” he says gently, and he sounds like he’s near tears too. When she looks up, she can see his eyes are wet, glistening with them. “It’s okay. You’re okay, and so am I.”

She shakes her head, tears glazing her own cheeks. “I thought— I thought you were dead.” She reaches both her hands through the bars now and presses them against the warm, firm skin of his cheeks. There’s a cut across his jaw, and she strokes her thumb over it. “I saw them— I saw them shoot you in the _head—_ ” Her fingers tremble with the extent of relief that is now taking hold of her. She feels like she’s breathing again for the first time in months. “But they didn’t? They didn’t shoot you?”

“Yeah, they did,” he replies grimly. “Just not in the head. Don’t worry, though,” he grins widely despite the sad look in his eye, “everything important’s still there.”

She laughs through her tears, because what an _idiot_ , still making lame jokes while they’re both still imprisoned, and she presses her face to the bars. He takes her cue, leaning forward, and their lips connect, a soft brush.

Clarke makes a sound at the back of her throat. It’s not enough. His fingers reach through the bars to touch her cheek, her chin as they kiss again, sweet and light.

Clarke snarls against his lips in frustration at the bars that prevent them from coming any closer. His thumb soothes a small circle across her chin, and he leans away.

Now _he’s_ looking her over as well, and his lips pull into a frown. “What’s that?”

She realizes he’s looking at the shock collar. “It’s nothing,” she says dismissively, not wanting him to worry. Luckily, his gaze is distracted again.

“The baby,” he says in a cracked whisper. “Is—”

“Yes,” she replies eagerly, wiping tears off her cheeks. She lifts her oversized shirt, shows him her belly. It’s still small, but it’s clearly there, proof of this one undeniably beautiful thing they have done together.

The way his face melts into awe is heart wrenching. He presses his hand against the bars, and Clarke scoots closer so he can press his fingers against her skin.

“I wasn’t there,” he whispers. Clarke is sure by the look in his eye, he’s thinking about his own father.

“It’s not your fault. And it’s okay,” she reassures. “I have— friends, who have helped me. It’s going smoothly, I think.”

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “But… I’m so sorry, Clarke. I wasn’t there.” She’s about to reassure him again, but he goes on as he runs his fingers down the slight roundness of her belly, and this time she can tell he’s struggling not to cry. “I wasn’t there to see _this_ happen.”

He sounds heartbroken.

She feels fresh tears pool in her eyes. “You’ll see the rest of it,” she promises, and she stands, wrenches at the chains that lock his cell shut. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Clarke.” His voice is sad, knowing.

She grits her teeth as she resumes tugging at the chains. “I’m going to go upstairs. I’ll get the keys. Or pliers. Or something. I’m going to get you out of here, right now.” She doesn’t mention the fact that she’s pressing dangerously close to her time limit— _someone’s_ got to notice that she’s gone by now.

He seems to realize that. “Clarke, you have to go.”

“I can’t leave you,” she says in a small voice. “I can’t leave you again.”

What if she never _sees_ him again? What if he’s dead in his next match, because she just walked away from him this time?

“Clarke, I don’t know what you did to get here, but I think you know you have to go, right now.”

“I— I don’t know if I can,” she whispers. There’s a part of her that literally thinks she will not be able to move her feet from the front of his cell. She can’t walk away from him. Not after all this time thinking he was _dead_.

He tilts his head, considers her. He’s still kneeling on the ground where she left him when she stood up. His warm, dark gaze is on hers for several seconds as he reads exactly what she’s thinking. And then he says, “Clarke, I’ll still be here next time.”

His certainty breaks her. He’s fighting cage matches to the death on the regular, and yet his voice doesn’t waver. “How can you be so sure?” she asks in a cracked whisper.

“Because I have something to live for,” he replies softly. Before she can respond, he rises on his haunches a bit to fish in his grimy pocket for something, and when he brings it out on his outstretched palm she gapes.

It’s a ring. 

But it’s not just _any_ ring. It’s the ring she took out and looked at back in ALIE’s mansion, the one that reminded her of her mother’s; in what feels like a lifetime ago. It’s still as pretty as before, facets of the gems set in it winking slightly in the dim light. 

How did he keep it safe all this time? How did he even _know_?

He clears his throat. “Clarke Griffin,” he says, and it strikes her as a little odd that he’s saying her full name, “This might be pointless, but I’d like to marry you some day, if you’d want that.” He sounds a little uncertain at the end there.

She doesn’t even hesitate; even as he’s saying these words, she’s sinking back to her knees, putting them at equal height. She’s crying again, but her face is already ugly red and blotchy, and apparently that’s not deterring him from looking at her like she’s the universe, so. She grabs his hand, the one that’s holding the ring, and clasps it, so the ring is held tightly between their joined hands. “Damn right, it’s pointless,” she says, feeling tears dripping onto her smile. Because “I’m _already_ your wife. You heard the Grounders.” He huffs out a watery laugh. “We do everything together. And I’m carrying your _baby_. How was I supposed to make it clearer that I already see you as my husband?” With her free hand, she strokes a finger through his messy curls. He closes his eyes at the touch, and a tear escapes onto his cheek.

“You know what they say about assuming,” he breathes. His eyes open after a moment and he takes the ring from her palm gently. “I’ll keep it safe until we’re together again. But you need to go, now. Before they realize you’re here.” He pushes her hands back through the bars, to her side.

Clarke sees it, what he’s doing. He’s given her something to hold onto. He’s given her this extra bit of strength by asking her to marry him, so that she can carry on until the next time they see each other.

She wants to say it, right then. She wants to say that she loves him. The words are ready on her lips. But she holds them in. She decides right then to say them when they’re both free. When there’s no rush at all, no bars between them or collar around her neck. She wants to say them when he can be sure she really means them, that she means them _always_.

Her love for him won’t ruin them this time. It will be what keeps them going.

She opens her mouth to respond, and then out of nowhere she’s electrocuted. 

She falls back with a choked groan, hands coming up automatically to the collar at her neck. She’s being _shocked_. They know she’s gone. She has to go, now.

“Clarke,” Bellamy shouts past her haze of pain and panic. She shakes it off, staggers to her feet, and ignores his hands stretching through the bars. “Are they— are they _electrocuting_ you?” His voice is coloured with disbelief.

She doesn’t answer that question, and she sees a dark rage cross his face at the next, brief shock that runs through the collar. She makes an involuntary sound of pain at that too, and he’s on his feet, face pressed against the bars.

“Clarke,” he cries, trying to press his hand through the bars, to touch her. But she steps out of reach, begins to stumble her way away from him.

“I’m coming back for you,” she turns to gasp. He’s silent, anguished tears streaking his cheeks, but he nods. Despite her own words, she finds herself turning one last time to memorize his face as she has a million times before, taking in the image of him sitting alive and breathing in front of her, just in case.

But then she tears her eyes away and doesn’t look back as she stumbles back in the direction of the stairs. She doesn’t _need_ to burn his face into memory, she tells herself, because she’s going to _see_ it again.

She’s going to come back for him.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was really no good place to split this chapter so I just ended it here. The second half of part three will be coming your way really soon; I still see 3a and 3b as one big chapter so I don't want to leave a huge delay in between there.
> 
> I would love a comment, you know it makes me really happy to hear your thoughts! thanks for reading. xx


	4. soft epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I think we deserve_   
>  _a soft epilogue, my love._   
>  _We are ~~good~~ people_   
>  _and we have suffered enough._
> 
> \- nikki ursula ([x](http://cardiamachina.co.vu/post/135094820143/i-think-we-deserve-a-soft-epilogue-my-love))
> 
>  
> 
> \--

“Where were you?” Jensen barks at her back in the van. She notices with a jolt that his hand is absentmindedly stroking the gun strapped to his hip.

Clarke shakes herself out of the daze the electrocution put her in and concentrates, trying to think clearly. “I was asked to run an errand for someone. Sorry,” she adds quickly, figuring it will help. Squeezing that apology past her lips is one of the hardest things she’s ever done, and that includes climbing a huge cage to escape a mutant gorilla.

Jensen surveys her for a long moment, but evidently he’s in a good mood, because the gun doesn’t come out. His hand relaxes, and so does Clarke. And then he barks, “ _Stupid_ girl. You don’t answer to anyone but me.” He turns away, grumbling, “trying to use _my_ labourers for free now…”

Clarke lets out a breath, slumping in her seat.

She hopes the baby’s okay. But the worry over that is overshadowed still by simple relief, and she leans her head back against the seat as the van drives down the road, leaving Boulder Mountain and the Arena and _him_ in the distance. She marvels at this fact, unable to stop premature joy from spreading through her veins.

Bellamy is alive. She touches her fingers to her own lips, still feeling the pressure of his there.

She’s not alone.

And she never _was_.

—

Carlos is waiting for her when she stumbles back to the barracks, and he’s smudged in dark dirt from head to toe as usual.

“I ran all the way from the mines as soon as I heard you were back,” he gasps, following her step for step as she practically skips into the barracks. The place looks brighter somehow, and her hammock doesn’t feel as scratchy as usual when she flings herself into it, making it swing erratically. “Was he—”

“Yes, he was,” Clarke says, feeling a grin spread on her face as she stares up at the cracked ceiling. “He _is_.”

—

The bliss fades somewhat in the next few days, only to be replaced with the underlying urgency of the situation. They’re both still trapped; it’s not over yet. And it won’t be over, not until she has him in her arms, and they don’t have to run anymore.

“I need to get out of here,” she tells Carlos in a low voice. “I need to rescue him.”

Carlos pauses in wolfing down his stew. “Correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t he come to rescue _you_?”

Clarke goes on as if he hasn’t spoken. “Carlos, we can _all_ get out of here. We can _escape_ this place.”

The certainty in her voice seems to surprise him, and he lowers his bowl. “Why are you suddenly so sure?”

Because she’s got a warm feeling in her heart and her soul is singing. Because Bellamy is _alive_. “Because I’ve escaped impossible situations before.”

He watches her wearily. “What do you have in mind?” He’s correctly deduced that she’s already been working on this, long before she brought it up.

Clarke leans forward. “Who in this place is due for their annual collar maintenance?”

Carlos’ eyes widen.

—

It just so happens that one of the older women is due for her collar maintenance, and that’s who Clarke and Carlos, and whoever Carlos can enlist to help, watch like hawks over the next two days.

The woman is taken from the barracks in the dead of night, and that’s how Clarke discovers where Jensen’s prisoners are taken to take the collars off.

It’s in Jensen’s office, the building on the end of the street.

It’s rather obvious, really.

“The key, or whatever they use to deactivate it, it’s got to be in there,” Clarke says to Carlos. “We have to get to it.”

“How?” is his reply. The reason they couldn’t come close enough to peek through the window is, well, the heavily guarded area outside.

“We’ll figure something out,” Clarke says firmly. “If nothing else— the signal they use to shock people, it’s got to have a range, doesn’t it?”

His eyebrows go up all the way. She goes on.

“If we could just get out of the range of those things before they realize it— then we’re home free.”

“That’s risky. Not to mention never been done before, _chica_.”

“I know,” Clarke murmurs. “It’s just a thought. In case I have to.” She doesn’t want to take that risk, but maybe she has to.

“You’re _loca_ ,” Carlos says with admiration.

—

They keep an eye on the patrol on Jensen’s office from then on, gradually making out a pattern. It’s not just Clarke’s and Carlos’ project anymore; there are others now who are in the loop.

There is a sense of excitement stirring in the barracks, as people gradually catch on to what the growing group of rebels are doing. The prisoners are finally allowing themselves to think about the possibility of getting out and living lives beyond just surviving here.

“It’s because of you,” Carlos tells her one night. There’s pride in his voice. “They feel inspired because of _you_.”

Looks like Clarke learned something from Bellamy, after all.

—

Bellamy thought knowing that Clarke is alive would help him sleep better at night, but instead it just makes things worse.

He’s going a little bit crazy here. He can’t stop thinking about the collar around Clarke’s neck, and the endless questions. Why was it electrocuting her? Were they doing that on a regular basis? The thought simultaneously makes him feel ill and sets his bones afire with rage.

Especially when he thinks about the fact that she’s pregnant, and that can’t be good for the baby either. And the thought that her captors might know she’s pregnant and _still_ subject her to that is what makes him start to think seriously about his next opportunity to get out of this place. If only so he can find them, and strangle them.

He’s pretty sure he’s got it figured out, actually— the weak point in this entire operation, that is. After every match, the victor is brought into a dressing room. It’s got mirrors on the wall, an honest-to-god dresser, and he thinks by the faded _Macbeth_ poster still on the wall that this place must have been a theatre before the bombs— the kind of place where actors would have gotten ready. It’s just another thing from a time before his that he wishes he would’ve gotten to experience.

In any case, he gets several minutes alone in there to clean off after his victory before the guard just outside comes in and takes him back to his cell. The door of the dressing room is locked from the outside until the ten minutes are up, but Bellamy doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem. The guards aren’t really very bright.

He’s still working through his plan after his latest match when he hears the Ringmaster say as he’s being escorted to the dressing room, “His next match is in three days against June, she’s been quite the disappointment.”

He freezes up, and has to be pushed forward before he falls back into step. June is the youngest gladiator here. She’s got to be in her mid-teens. She’s tall and strongly built, but she’s gentle. Bellamy hears her crying from the other end of the hall whenever she’s escorted from a match. Despite the fact that he’s tried to harden his heart to all the people he’s in here with, he just can’t do it when it comes to this one.

She reminds him a lot of Charlotte, actually.

“The audience senses weakness,” The Ringmaster goes on to say. “She’s not a good show when she’s _crying_. And her fights are getting worse, less people betting on her now. Figured might as well have Augustus take her out.” There’s a sick pride to the woman’s voice. Bellamy is her prize fighter.

No, Bellamy thinks desperately. He can’t.

This is the final straw— he decides right then that he’s getting out _now_.

He’s pushed into the dressing room and is confronted with the showerhead. He normally stands under here as long as he can stand, trying to get the blood out from under his fingernails. Not today.

He glances in the mirror, at the blood splattered on his body. He reaches for a towel and wipes the blood from his face before throwing it to the side and creeping up to the door, where he knows the guard is stationed just outside.

Bellamy raises a hand and knocks, two rapid raps against the metal.

He hears shifting on the other side. “You’ve still got five minutes,” he hears the confused guard say. Bellamy always takes as much time as he can in this open room, and he’s never done this before.

Bellamy takes a step back from the door and waits with clenched fists, knowing the guard won’t be able to hold back his curiosity.

As soon as the door hinges start to turn, Bellamy reaches forward and _wrenches_ the door all the way open, causing the guard to stumble in from the momentum, bent over. Bellamy seizes the man’s head in both his hands and brings his knee up to his face. There’s a sickening crunch of bone being broken, but the guard is huge and strong and Bellamy knows it’s going to take more to take this one down.

He sees the man draw a breath, about to shout a warning, and punches him across the jaw before he can. They grapple with each for a few moments, and Bellamy finally overpowers him. Not before he gets a yell out, though:

“ _He’s out_!”

Bellamy leaps over the guards unconscious body, in the same movement scooping up his key ring and gun, and dashes down the hall as fast as his legs can carry him. He knows exactly how to get out— the arching doorway to the outside, sun streaming out, is in sight. He hears shouts but they won’t get him in time.

He will be _free_ —

Wait, but what about the rest of them?

He pauses in his footsteps, and thinks of June’s frightened face. They’re going to kill that kid, whether _he’s_ there or not to finish the job.

Can he really just _leave_ , knowing that?

His split-second hesitation is enough to be overtaken by the guards.

He manages to shoot his way through quite a few of them, and he’s dashing for the exit again— yup, he’ll have to come back for them, he supposes— when the Ringmaster appears in front of him.

He raises his gun, shoots without hesitation. This woman is a monster.

But the gun just makes a pathetic clicking sound. He’s out of bullets.

And he’s out of luck, apparently. Because when he raises the gun to slam it into the woman’s head, she catches his arm with the practiced strength of a skilled fighter, and he realizes the Ringmaster is not just a manager.

She strikes him in the solar plexus, leaving him gasping, and then what follows is another brutal hand-to-hand fight that ends with an exhausted, injured Bellamy falling to the floor, vision flickering in and out.

“You’re good,” The Ringmaster murmurs, breathing only a bit uneven as he gasps on the floor. She says it with admiration, almost, underneath all the rage. “You’re so, _so_ good. It’s too bad, really, that you had to go and disobey. And after everything I’ve done for you. All the _fame_ I brought you, Augustus.” She leans forward and wrenches his head back so he’s looking at her. She leans forward, so close that her lips are nearly brushing his. “Now I have to kill you. I won’t take any pleasure from that.”

He lashes out, going for her throat, but there are several guards around them now, and he’s overpowered again.

Before he’s knocked out, he hears her voice again, low in his ear. “I’ll take some pleasure from the money it makes me, though.”

—

It was stupid of Clarke to think she had all the time in the world to figure out how to get out of here.

When she overhears in the bar that Augustus Jaha’s next match in two days is three-on-one, she nearly drops the teapot she’s carrying.

“... he’s going against the other best fighters in the Arena,” Jensen’s saying excitedly at his table to someone else. “They’re not as good as him, but three on _one_... His odds don’t look good.”

“You going to bet on him?” The person he’s talking to asks.

Jensen laughs. “The Arena has declared this match isn’t taking any bets.”

“Probably smart. Sounds less like a fight and more like an execution.”

“Yeah, I heard this one pissed off the Ringmaster,” Jensen says. “He killed a good dozen of her guards and she was _livid_. Shame. That one was real entertainment.” He looks up, and his gaze meets with Clarke. Clarke realizes she’s staring quite blatantly at the two of them and she quickly turns back to her work, hunching over to make herself small as possible. She feels the man’s eyes on her for a minute afterwards.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she feels his gaze slide away from her, but it’s a momentary reprieve because then she’s overwhelmed with panic.

She dashes to the barracks to find Carlos, and when she does, she says without preamble, “Change of plans. We have to break into Jensen’s office tomorrow.”

“ _Chica—_ ” he’s shocked, but she cuts him off harshly.

“They’re executing Bellamy at the arena, Carlos! In two _days_! I have to get out of here. I have to get to him.” Her mind is working double time. “I’m going to run. But listen— no, _listen_ , Carlos. We have the patterns, we know where his guards are most likely to be. We can _all_ get out of here, right now.”

“Slow down,” Carlos orders. “We have one chance for this, and you want to rush it? I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

She feels tears brimming in her eyes, and she flings her hands up. “Okay. I understand that. I don’t expect any of you to risk your chance on me. But I’m going to run whether or not you help. I’ll just hope they don’t realize I’m gone until I’m out of range of the shock collars.”

He gapes. “Do you realize the chances, Clarke? What about your baby? That’s the stupidest—”

“ _He’s going to die_!” Clarke screams, and the noise in the entirety of the barracks pauses, people turning their heads to look at her.

Carlos pats her soothingly on the shoulder, sending reassuring looks to the people who are looking in their direction until they turn away. They’re rather accustomed to the fact that Clarke is a bit of an oddball, to them. Then Carlos turns back to her, searching her eyes. “If your Bellamy loves you even half as much as you clearly love him,” he tells her quietly, “then he wouldn’t want you to do this.”

Clarke shudders in a breath. She _knows_ that. Carlos goes on.

“He’d want you to choose your child, not him.”

She closes her eyes, takes a moment to settle herself before opening them. After everything, she refuses to accept that it’s coming to _this_. She’s not choosing between her unborn child and Bellamy. “It’s not a certainty the electric shock will do _anything_ the baby. We don’t know that. It’s just a hypothetical risk.” She looks up at him, feeling new determination set into her bones. “But it _is_ a pretty sure certainty that Bellamy is going to die if I don’t find him.”

Carlos shakes his head tiredly as she talks. “You’re completely deranged. Bat-shit crazy.”

“Maybe I am,” Clarke allows, unbothered. Actually, after everything that she’s gone through, she’s sure that she is. But if she came out the other end of hell and the worst thing to happen was that she turned _crazy_ , she thinks she was probably lucky.

He sighs at the look on her face. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer, just nodding. “So let’s do it your way.”

She blinks.

Carlos smiles. “You’re right. We’re _all_ getting out of here.”

—

The lag between guard shift changes, as they’ve noted, is scheduled to occur the next day, so that’s when they plan it.

Carlos and Clarke slip into Jensen’s office while two of his friends stand watch.

Clarke casts a glance around the room. It’s huge, and filled with all sorts of books and papers and tech on every surface. She’d like to burn it down.

“Three minutes,” Carlos says tersely. “If we can’t find it, then we get out.” They don’t even know what they’re looking for, really.

But they do find it. Stupidly easy, in a drawer in Jensen’s desk. Clarke half expects an alarm to go off when Carlos lifts it, but it doesn’t. It’s a remote. It’s made of the same smooth, distinct metal as the collars, and it’s got several buttons on it. One of those buttons is rather prominent.

“This must be what they use to deactivate it,” Carlos breathes, and lifts his arm to point the remote at Clarke’s neck. He presses down on the large red button.

Her collar shocks her for a fraction of a second before he reflexively lets go, whispering frantic apologies.

“Wrong button,” Clarke grits out, clutching onto her neck. She snatches the remote out of his hand and points it at him, instead. She tries the next button on the remote, the blue one.

They stare at each other, no other sound except for their own frantic breathing.

“Well? Did it work?” Clarke asks, voice slightly high pitched.

Carlos frowns while she presses the button a few more times. “I don’t know.”

Of course that would have been too easy. Carlos e grabs the remote out of her hand again and points it at her collar, pressing down on the blue button.

Nothing seems to happen.

There’s a knock on the door, and they both start. “That’s the signal. Time’s up,” Carlos says briskly. “Better hope it works.”

“We could take it,” Clarke murmurs, eyeing the thing. It would be so easy. “We could just take it with us.”

“And then they will know,” Carlos reminds her, none too gently now that they’re on a schedule. “Put it back.”

She’s struck with indecision, but when the second knock comes, more urgent than before, she realizes she doesn’t have _time_ to think about it.

She drops it back into Jensen’s drawer and the two of them quietly slip out, rounding the corner just as the late guard comes wandering to his post.

—

“If you wait til tomorrow for the next opening,” Carlos tries for the millionth time, sitting on his hammock, “we can try again. Maybe there’s a button on the remote that we missed.”

She shakes her head as she pulls on a sweater on top of her shirt. “No time for that. I have to get to the Arena before Bellamy’s match. That means if I leave now, I might make it.” Worry claws at her stomach.

“Even if it worked and your collar got deactivated, they might find you anyway.”

“I know.”

“And they’ll kill you if they do.”

Clarke rolls on two extra pairs of socks instead of answering.

“If Aug— _Bellamy’s_ as good as they say he is, he has a pretty good chance at winning a three-on-one match.”

Clarke turns to glare at him. “Not when that bitch is actively trying to have him killed.” She shakes her head. Carlos doesn’t get it. The games these people play don’t have unshakeable rules. They’ll flip the board over if it means getting what they want.

“You’re on a suicide mission,” Carlos says with a sigh, watching as Clarke grabs her pack and flings it over her shoulder.

She turns to face him. “I’m going as soon as it’s dark. From the north side.” That’s the direction of the Arena— she paid attention on her last trip there. She knows how to get to it. She could do it— it’s _possible_. Maybe not probable, but. She’s accustomed to working with bad odds. Carlos looks ready to speak again, so she adds, “You can’t stop me, Carlos. Not about this.” Not when it’s about _him_ — when it’s about Bellamy, there’s nothing in the world that could stop her until he’s safe.

He’s silent for a moment, and she thinks he’s going to rebut that. But then, quite unexpectedly, he hops off his hammock and pulls her into a hug. Clarke’s not ready for it and almost loses balance, but after a moment she relaxes into the embrace, putting her arms around him.

“ _Suerte_ , Clarke,” Carlos whispers against her shoulder.

She smiles, a little teary-eyed at his wish of good luck. He’s been the one ray of hope that has kept her going in this place in her darkest times, and she doesn’t know how to articulate her gratefulness to him. So she just says, with only the slightest shake to her voice, “May we meet again.”

—

True to her word, she begins her run as night falls on them. There has never been any walls around the town; it feeds into the illusion that they aren’t trapped. And besides, there are more effective ways of keeping them in.

So when she goes, it’s almost _easy_ to avoid the guards on their shifts because she’s memorized their patterns by now out of pure force of habit. She breaks into a run when she gets a few minutes out of the compound, the hot desert wind blowing at her face— but unfortunately, she doesn’t get that far.

She feels a shock bring her to her knees, and she staggers, thinking with disbelief, they _failed_.

And god, how long of a range do these collars _have_? How is she _still_ being shocked by them?

She tries to keep going anyway, but her steps are slow and tired, and they catch up with her easily.

She passes out.

—

They take her to Jensen.

Except Jensen’s not alone. Tonight, he’s sitting in the canteen with a woman with dark hair slicked into a high ponytail, and beady eyes that shine with malice.

“This one tried to escape,” the guard says tonelessly.

“Maybe we should make it common knowledge that the collars automatically induce a shock when you leave the perimeter of the compound,” Jensen muses, and Clarke closes her eyes, suddenly very _tired_.

“Permission to terminate, sir?”

She _tried_. She hopes Bellamy will understand that she tried. That he won’t be too angry with her for doing this. But the sad thing is she knows he won’t; he’ll just be angry with himself.

Maybe they’ll meet on the other side, and she’ll be able to tell him it’s not his fault.

“Oh, I’ll do it,” Jensen says irritably, and she hears the click of a gun’s safety being clicked off. Clarke takes a deep breath. Then out of nowhere the woman speaks, voice high and clear.

“Wait.”

Clarke opens her eyes, and the woman is staring at her with something like shock. Her gaze isn’t on Clarke’s face, though; it’s on her stomach.

“Jensen, did you know this one was with child?” she asks, and Clarke’s heart drops. She wasn’t slouching over enough; in her attempt to meet death with a calm face, she’d been sitting up _straight_.

“What?” Jensen’s eyes draw to Clarke’s stomach as well, and then it feels like everyone’s staring at her belly like she’s a circus freak show. “Oh, _hell_. Well,” he shrugs and points his gun back at Clarke’s head, “good thing we get rid of two problems at once.”

“Give her to me instead,” the woman says.

Jensen blinks. “Why? She clearly won’t be much of a fight.” His voice is dismissive.

The Ringmaster bares her teeth. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Jensen. She’ll be fighting for two. She’ll be desperate, and that makes her fight harder. Pregnant woman in the ring? It’s just good entertainment.” Clarke’s skin crawls at the woman’s reasoning, but Jensen just nods slowly, tucking away his gun.

“You’ve got a deal.”

—

And that’s how Clarke finds herself en route to the Arena.

First they take off her collar.

They don’t try to knock her out beforehand, probably because she’s leaving the compound forever, presumably to her death, so when she’s paraded into Jensen’s office she watches as he flips the remote in his drawer over and enters a code into a keypad she and Carlos had never noticed.

Then he presses that red button again, and the collar makes a humming sound. The guard reaches forward and clicks it off her throat. It feels strange, that she can suddenly turn her head without feeling the bite of the metal on her skin. She feels lighter again.

People stop and watch as she’s pulled towards the van waiting for her in the street, the same sort of van she came here in. Before she’s packed into the truck though, Carlos runs up to her.

“Carlos,” she gasps. “You— you’re okay?”

“Yes,” he says in a whisper, grabbing her hands and pressing a small, sharp knife into her palm. He doesn’t look down at it; in fact, it just looks like he’s holding her hand. Everyone in camp knows Carlos and Clarke are close, so the guards just roll their eyes as they try to pull Clarke away from him. They both cling on as long as they can. “Oh god, Clarke. I’m so sorry it didn’t work. We failed you.”

Clarke’s hands clench around the pocketknife, and she shakes her head vehemently at his sad words. He lunges forward against the guards holding her back to once more to whisper rapidly, “There’s a four number code on the remote in his office. That’s how you take it—” She’s pulled away, but not before she sees Carlos’ eyes widen in understanding.

He takes a step forward involuntarily, even while the guards are shouting at him now, too. “You—”

“I’m going to come back for you,” Clarke manages to utter, before Carlos is electrocuted for disobeying orders and he falls to the ground.

After everything he’s done for her, it’s the least she can do. She tucks the dagger into her sleeve, like she did with Rya’s. She’s shoved roughly into the back of the van, but not before she meets Carlos’ eyes one last time and they both nod.

—

When she’s arriving, there’s already a match about to start. She’s pushed through throngs of crowd, but try as she might she can’t see into the Arena itself. She’s brought down to the cell blocks that she’s already visited once before, and her heart leaps at the thought of speaking to Bellamy. They push her through the hall, and she looks automatically in his cell only to find that it’s empty, the door hanging wide open.

She tries immediately to squash down her panic. Maybe he’s just been _moved—_ this doesn’t mean it’s _his_ turn to fight right now _—_

She’s shoved into the cell that’s opposite Bellamy’s old one, and told to wait. Then they leave. They haven’t shackled her yet, or searched her. This is clearly a temporary thing.

So she waits, all the while planning her favourite tactic.

When the guard comes back, it’s a while later, and Clarke is lying limply on the floor on her stomach, arms sprawled out limp and hands bloody.

She hears him swear. “Shit—”

She almost smiles. She’d just pinched her nose and gave herself a nosebleed, smeared it up and down her arms for effect, and then lay down on her side. It’s not incredibly convincing, but in the low light, it’ll do.

It’s almost too easy. She waits until she hears the cell door open and the guard darts inside, hands going to roll her over.

She goes easily and stabs him in the chest with the knife she’s holding.

He looks down at where she’s twisting the blade and opens his mouth, as if to scream. Clarke sighs inwardly.

She slashes his throat, just like how Octavia used to say.

 _Slash, don’t stab_.

Blood sprays everywhere, and the man falls. Clarke looks down at the guard and doesn’t feel much at all.

(She’d do anything for him— to protect him.)

Clarke doesn’t waste any time after that. She scoops up his key ring, pulls his gun out of the holster, and steps out into the hall.

The other prisoners have their faces pressed to the bars. They’ve been drawn to the noise of the scuffle, and now they’re watching her. What gets her are their detached expressions. Like this is a movie they’re watching, where the main character escapes and they remain exactly where they are. They think she’s just going to leave them.

Even if she didn’t need their help, she’s not sure she could do that.

“Let’s get out of here,” she announces into the silence, and crosses to the other end of the hall to where that smaller woman who’d begged her to let her out is still trapped in. The woman looks frightened, despite her large stature; Clarke sends her a friendly smile as she works on the lock. “Hi. I’m Clarke.”

“June,” the woman whispers back.

The lock opens with a click, Clarke fishes the other key out of the ring and unlocks her ankle shackle; and then June’s stepping out.

She sets the rest of them free, too.

One of them tenses at the sight of her stepping into their cell, and Clarke pauses, confused until they say warily, “Skai kru.”

Ah. So here’s one of the Eastern Grounders Carlos had spoke of, who’d stumbled into the same trap as the rest of them. He knows who she is.

She levels the tall man with a flat stare. “Yes,” she says. “I’m Skai Kru. And I don’t want to fight with any of you. We need to work together to get out of here.” She know she sounds weary and doesn’t care; she’s tired of it all. As she speaks, she reaches down and unshackles the man’s ankle, straightening afterwards to see what he’ll do.

He doesn’t attack. Rather, they stare at each other for a moment, and then finally the Grounder nods grudgingly. Clarke wonders how agreeable he’d be if he’d been back East when she and Bellamy blew up a sizeable portion of the rest of them. But it doesn’t matter now.

As she goes around unshackling them, and the prisoners push at their own doors slowly, marvelling at this freedom, Clarke makes her voice as loud and authoritative as she can. She hasn’t had to do this in a while.

“I think it’s time to get out of here,” she says. “Let’s shut this place down for good so we can all go home.”

They look at her expectantly, Clarke, this blonde woman with a round belly and blood splattered on her face and chest and a battle snarl on her face. It feels a little like old times.

She grins widely, turns towards the stairs and beckons them forward over her shoulder. She channels a bit of Bellamy into her voice when she speaks. “Give ‘em hell.”

—

Bellamy’s fight has been moved up. He doesn’t know why and he doesn’t care, but he spends the few minutes he has before his match giving himself a pep talk.

 _Maybe_ he’s going to die, but he’s not going to go down easy.

Before he knows it, he’s in the ring and the stands are more full than they’ve ever been. It’s not a betting match, but there are still white pieces of paper floating around the crowd. People are _still_ betting unofficially, he realizes. They’re still betting on him.

He’d be touched by their faith in him if, you know, they didn’t just see him as an animal.

His three opponents square off against him, and he takes them in as they approach. Two of them are bigger than him, but one is limping slightly. The other one might pose a problem.

They’re trying to corner him, so before they can get too close he darts out of the way, back into the periphery. In his experience, the only way to win against multiple opponents is to find a way to fight them one-on-one, one _by_ one.

They’re slow to react, and Bellamy cuts down the smallest one with the little knife he’s been given in a matter of seconds, but not before sustaining a cut on his own shoulder. The crowd roars in approval. He winces and rolls his shoulder.

The two big ones charge him at once. One of them has a sword, and the other’s got an ax. Bellamy clutches his dagger tighter in his hand. If he were in a different situation, the clear bias in weapon distribution here might be funny.

(That different situation being if he were sitting in the stands. The Ringmaster does know how to set up entertainment, he’ll give her that.)

He again dodges to the side at the last possible second, twisting and slashing his knife through the back of one of their thighs. It’s an attempt to hamstring him, but he doesn’t get the chance to cut deep enough before his opponent’s elbow comes back and— _thwack_!— he’s seeing stars and staggering back.

He realizes, as they come for him again, that he just succeeded in making them mad.

Some minutes later, he realizes his attempt to hamstring has given him some benefit after all— he’d cut into the man’s limping leg, and he’s heavily favouring it now.

Bellamy engages with that one again, and he manages to knock his sword aside— he brings down his knife, but his opponent catches the handle, stopping Bellamy’s hand from coming down. For a few moments they’re locked in a close struggle, pushing against each other. Bellamy hears the other one come up behind them, battle ax raised.

He hears the telltale swish of the ax coming down and at the last second Bellamy stops pushing and throws himself to the side. The ax doesn’t stop in its momentum.

The second one falls to the ground with an ax embedded in his skull, and Bellamy finally squares off with the last, rolling to pick up the discarded sword.

This last opponent is the biggest one, the more difficult one to fight. The brute wrenches his ax out of the head of the one he’s just accidentally killed and growls, coming towards Bellamy.

Bellamy tries to stay light on his feet, but his reflexes are slower now.

They grapple for a few minutes and at some point his opponent swings his ax at him and Bellamy manages to grab onto the handle, forcing it back. They push back against each other for a few moments, just like he held off the man with the sword. Bellamy is straining so hard against the ax that’s _almost_ biting into his chest that he doesn’t notice until it’s too late when the other gladiator’s foot swings up and kicks him, _hard_.

His breath whooshes out of his chest, and he falls onto his back, dazed. His sword has fallen out of hand and is scattered out of reach. His opponent doesn’t waste any time; he steps on Bellamy’s hand when he reaches for his weapon, grinding down on it with his heel— Bellamy grits his teeth against the pain— and raises his ax again.

There’s no time.

All at once Bellamy hears Octavia’s voice in his head, but it’s not a harsh, biting order this time. It’s exceedingly kind, gentle even.

 _It’s okay. You did good_.

How he _wishes_ he had just an extra moment— but he doesn’t, and in those fractions of seconds he has before him he sees that. He hopes Clarke can forgive him for not getting out of this. He hopes his child will forgive him.

 _They will, big brother_.

At the last possible second, his opponent flinches. It’s strange— his arm that’s raising the ax jerks in place, and Bellamy could _swear_ he heard a gunshot— but if there was one, it’s lost in the wild screams of the crowd.

Whatever it is, Bellamy doesn’t miss this moment of hesitation. It’s all he needs to reach with his other hand over his own body and grab the sword, cutting it across the other gladiator’s leg in one motion, a deep slash.

He howls, and reels back, leaving Bellamy unpinned so he can leap up and stab his opponent through the chest with the sword.

The crowd goes wild, and Bellamy watches while the life leaves the other man’s eyes. And just like every other time, as the adrenaline of the fight recedes from his veins, he feels it. He feels for his opponent, because despite it all, despite the fact that he was trying to kill him, Bellamy knows it wasn’t his choice.

Neither of them were given one.

He’s dimly aware of the crowd on their feet, screaming, pieces of paper floating amongst them, but Bellamy doesn’t care. He’s too tired.

He wrenches the sword out of his opponent’s chest and drops it to the floor with a clatter.

He turns, expecting the guard to come through the door and escort him to the dressing room, or more likely, somewhere quiet to be killed— because he knows he’s not getting off that easy— but no one comes through.

He pauses for just a moment, then goes for the door himself.

The door out of the stadium isn’t even locked, and he quietly lets himself out into the hallway, shutting the Arena and the noise of it out.

It’s dark, and he nearly trips over something in his way. He looks down, and it’s the guard. Unconscious on the floor. Bellamy bends down, looking for a gun— but the weapon is gone.

Something’s going on here.

Injuries and tiredness forgotten, he creeps further down the hall, and he encounters more fallen guards on the way. Well, shit. Something’s _definitely_ going on here, and he’s not going to pass up this opportunity.

He goes for the exit, the one he went for the last time he tried to escape.

And just like the last time he tried to escape, the Ringmaster steps in front of him, blocking him from the exit.

Strangely, she looks a little worse for wear. She’s breathing hard, and her hair is falling out of her ponytail. There’s a slash across her collarbone bleeding onto her white dress.

She’s also got a gun trained on him.

“More trouble than you’re worth,” she snarls. It’s a point blank shot. Bellamy hasn’t got time to move.

 _Bang_.

Bellamy actually raises a hand involuntarily to his forehead, as if he’ll be able to feel for the shot there. But nothing. It takes him a long, slow second to realize that he’s not the one who’s been shot. No; the Ringmaster is pitching forward instead, and when she falls in a heap at his feet, there’s Clarke Griffin standing silhouetted by the light at the end of the tunnel, a gun in her hand and blood splattered across her clothes and a wild snarl gracing her features.

He’s never seen such a beautiful sight in his goddamn life.

“Clarke,” he manages to croak.

She tucks the gun into the waistband of her pants without taking her eyes off of him. “ _Bellamy_.”

He doesn’t even realize his feet are bringing him forward, but then he’s standing in front of her and she _leaps_ into his arms. He holds her close, and her feet are dangling off the floor and she’s pressed against his chest smelling like sweat and blood and dirt and _Clarke_. He’s dizzy with relief, which is why he stumbles when he catches her.

She half-laughs, half-sobs against his shoulder. “It’s over, Bellamy.” She sags against him. He sets her down and then he can’t help his hands from running down to the swell of her stomach.

It’s truly an awe-inspiring thing to know that in Clarke’s belly, there’s a child. After all the death and destruction they’ve caused, they created a _life_ together. It doesn’t make up for the lives they’ve taken, but maybe it’s not supposed to. This doesn’t compare; it’s something else entirely, and it feels like a miracle to him.

He finally manages to tear his eyes away and back up to her, examining her face for injury. He runs his hands along the blood on her cheeks and realizes that the collar that was around her neck is no longer there. The skin is lighter there, a faint tan line where it used to be. “How did you—”

“I set all the gladiators free,” Clarke tells him. She sounds proud of herself, and she fucking should be. “They’re tearing this place apart. With a vengeance.” She presses herself against him again, and she breathes, “Bellamy, we’re free.”

“I meant how did you escape,” he murmurs, running a finger down her throat where her collar used to be.

She swallows. “With a bit of luck and a bit of help.” And now, with his hand on her throat, she’s starting to look at him a little differently. Her gaze goes dark, and she bites her lip.

Yeah. He knows that look. Very, very well. But they’re in the hallway in the Arena, and they should probably get out of here, even if all the guards are dead and…

His brain kind of short circuits when her fingers hook into his belt loops and she pushes him backwards with her hips, pushing him through the door on the side of the hallway.

It’s one of the dressing rooms, he registers dimly. He tries to clear his throat. “What about the—”

“They’re all dead,” she whispers, a hair’s breadth away from his lips, but he’s still worrying.

“What about—”

She kisses him.

—

It’s all come crashing down on her at once, the immediate danger has passed. She’d run into the stands at the Arena as soon as she’d gotten out, leaving the other gladiators to wreak havoc. She’d gotten there just in time to see Bellamy sprawled on the ground, and his remaining opponent swinging an ax up.

Her heart had seized— _no—_ and in the midst of the screaming, enthralled crowd, she’d lifted her gun and shot without hesitation.

She’d been aiming for the man’s head, honestly, but she got his arm instead. It worked well enough, and Bellamy had done the rest. And then she’d run to find him before someone else did.

And now he’s standing in front of her shirtless, skin gleaming in the low light, dark pants splattered with blood, and there’s a smudge of it on his cheek, a cut on the junction between his throat and shoulder. She follows the line of it with interest as he speaks.

When she can’t take it anymore, she kisses him.

He makes a surprised noise, and she presses closer to him, walking him backwards until his legs hit the dresser. She _wants_ him.

It’s hit her that she hasn’t had him for so _long_ , and she’s craving.

“Clarke, we should probably get out of here first,” he gasps against her lips, but he’s the one rolling his hips in counter to her own movements.

She ignores him. “I want you,” she breathes feverishly. “I want you right now.”

He searches her eyes, lips parting. She takes the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth and lick the roof of his mouth, hot and filthy.

He wrenches his head away but it’s not in worry this time. There’s a dark look in his eyes instead. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck. We’re doing this here, aren’t we?” He half-laughs, but it’s more a desperate sound, a growl almost. His hands grip her hips, and she ruts against him in encouragement, moaning at the friction a little bit.

The next moment, he’s wheeled them around, slamming her down on top of the dresser and kissing her harshly, his hands going everywhere, running up her ribcage under her shirt, over her breast, squeezing her ass, running under her thigh.

She’s doing the same to him, hands everywhere. She can’t keep her hands off right now. He’s warm and alive and all that dirt and sweat and blood on him isn’t a deterrent at all. In fact, it might be doing just the opposite.

“Bellamy,” she whispers against his throat. She can’t articulate what she needs right now.

He peppers kisses against her lips, her chin, and one slow, lingering one against the top of her breast. She arches into it, but he immediately retreats, whispers into her ear instead, “What do you want, Clarke? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

“I— I think you know,” she gasps feverishly.

“You want me to make you come? Is that it, Clarke?” His voice is almost guttural, but he’s still not moving. She doesn’t reply right away, too busy catching her breath. He bites her earlobe softly.

“Yes,” she hisses. He grinds into her again, sudden, and whispers.

“Any way you want it, Clarke. Tell me. You want my fingers?”

His hand, under the material of her shirt, sears feverishly hot circles into her lower back.

“My mouth?”

He licks a path straight up the column of her throat.

His voice is just a suggestion. “Or…?”

And then he grinds against her again, deep, dark delicious _friction_ of his erection against her core for a few pleasurable seconds where she’s seeing stars, and then he retreats again.

In another situation, she might have said all of the above. But right now… “I want,” she gasps, so overwhelmed with the feeling of his warmth pressed against her, of Bellamy around her, “I just want you inside me right now.”

He searches her eyes and he seems to know what she’s thinking. She needs this extra reassurance that he’s here, in front of her. She needs them to be together in every way possible.

From the look in his eyes, she thinks that he needs that, too.

Bellamy nods, exceedingly gentle when he presses a kiss to her lips. “Okay.”

His hand goes down to her panties, and in turn she fumbles with his pants. It’s a clumsy few seconds, as desperate as they are. In the end, he just pushes her underwear to the side, and his pants aren’t even off his legs entirely when he sinks into her.

He’s warm, and thick, so very _there_ ; he fills her up where she’s feeling hollow, and not just in a carnal sense. She starts to cry almost immediately, like a complete sap while clinging to his shoulders, but it’s too much. She’s wrapped up in him in every way possible and after so long of being starved of his touch it feels so very _good_.

He’s immediately there, brushing hair out of her eyes to see her expression better, and concern warming his own. “Do you want to stop?”

“Hell no,” she manages to gasp. She wraps her legs tightly around his torso, drawing him in close. “I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“Bellamy, just fuck me,” she commands.

He smirks widely and wraps an arm around her hips, securing her against him. “You know, that’s one order I don’t mind taking from you.” He pulls out almost all the way, and then slams back into her. It _burns_ , but in a good way.

She makes some sort of sound, throwing her head back, and then as he settles into a rhythm, she lets her head fall forward, onto his shoulder. His head’s on her shoulder too, with his face turned into her neck as he mouths at her skin there, biting and soothing with his tongue.

There’s a mirror on the opposite wall, she notices, and she finds herself staring into it. Through the mirror she can see the muscles of his ass tensing as he fucks her, and her heels digging into his lower back. She can see him thrusting into her, how she’s being shoved backward with every thrust. How her knees fall open wide every time he drives home. She can see her arms wrapped around his shoulders, one hand finding its way into his hair. She can see the back of his head as he bends it over her shoulder. Watch her own nails rake down his already scarred back, leaving fading, parallel white marks on the tan skin. And she can see her own expression, how her mouth is going slack with pleasure, eyes only half-lidded, spots of pink on her cheeks and the wispy dark hair on her temples plastered down to her skin.

She’s watching herself be fucked by Bellamy Blake. It feels a little obscene. And more than a little hot.

There’s a mirror behind her on the dresser she’s on, too, and it reflects back just enough so she can also see the way her shirt’s hiked up in the back and one of his forearms disappearing beneath the fabric. The other hand is twisted tightly into her hair.

He pauses to hike her leg up higher on his hip and then goes at it again, this time at a new angle that makes the dresser bang loudly against the wall with each movement, and the sound of it— how hard he’s driving into her— starts a tightening in Clarke’s core.

He senses it. “You close?” He runs his nose along the line of her throat and shoulder. His voice, deep with lust, sends another zing through her.

She’s _really_ fucking close but not quite there yet; at least, until she realizes she can see just a glimpse of his face in the two mirror reflection; eyes closed, dark curls messy on his forehead as he nuzzles against her shoulder. His gaze lifts to the mirror, and their eyes meet through the reflections. Without breaking their indirect eye contact, he bites down gently on her shoulder.

That’s all she needs, apparently, and she’s keening through her entire release, wrenching him closer with her legs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he pants against her skin, not taking his eyes off her in the mirror as she falls forward boneless against him. “The things you _do_ to me.” And then he comes, too.

For a minute afterward they lean against each other, foreheads pressed against each other, skin sliding on skin from their sweat.

While he’s catching his breath, he lazily noses against her ear in an affectionate gesture, and she nuzzles her cheek against his, just basking in the feeling of him so close to her.

“Okay,” she breathes finally, running a hand through her frizzy hair. “You’re right, we should probably get out of here now.” They’ve been pressing their luck as it is.

He leans back to smile in that adorable way of his, eyes crinkling up at her suggestion. His face is still a little flushed. “Oh, so _now_ you want to go.”

She laughs, a little embarrassed now that her bliss is fading that she just _jumped_ him right where he stood, really right where someone could have walked in. She’s suddenly struck with the mental image of the Grounder she’d freed earlier in the cells walking in on her and Bellamy having sex and starts helplessly giggling.

“What?” he asks. He’s watching her laugh with a fond twinkle in his eye.

She bites her lip, trying to contain it, but her shoulders keep shaking. “I— nothing. Sorry for just—” she waves her arm around, at the way that her legs are still locked around his waist. “Jumping on you with no warning.”

He huffs out an amused breath before he kisses her.

It’s a tender kiss, one that says _I missed you_ and _I love you_. She curls her arms around his neck and tries to return the sentiment. The kiss goes longer, but not getting deeper; more like they’re tentatively trying to become reacquainted with each other’s lips after their months apart. It feels innocent and light, and it’s not lost on Clarke the strangeness of it all. They just had filthy sex and now they’re kissing like it’s their first time and they’re afraid of breaking each other.

They break away, and he cocks up an eyebrow and replies, “You don’t hear _me_ complaining.”

—

The Arena is deserted when they finally get out of there, stepping over bodies as they go. The other gladiators appear to have taken off— there are tire tracks in the sand, quickly being blown over from their hasty escapes. Clarke points to one of the vans they use to bring in prisoners still parked, and they take it.

“We have to go back to where I was held prisoner,” Clarke tells him as they hit the road.

His hands tighten on the wheel. “To hell with that, Clarke.” He sounds disbelieving that she would even suggest it.

“People who helped me are still there,” she insists. “You know I can’t just abandon them. And Carlos. Bellamy, I told him I’d come back for him. I’m not going back on that promise.”

He blinks. “Who’s Carlos?”

It hits Clarke that they have a lot to catch up on. “A friend,” she explains. “He’s been helping me since the very beginning. I wouldn’t have… I don’t know that I would have survived there without him.”

“Why?”

It’s her turn to be confused. He sounds so guarded still, and she has to remind herself not to be defensive. He doesn’t know Carlos, what kind of person he is. The past three months of her life are a complete mystery to him. “Because he’s a good person.” Bellamy is silent, but his eyebrows have raised in skepticism. She reaches out and places a hand on his knee. “Believe it or not, Bellamy, but they still exist out there.”

His jaw works in indecision for a moment, and then he swivels the wheel, so that they turn onto the dirt road that leads to Jensen’s encampment.

She leans forward and kisses his cheek, and she sees a trace of a smile soften his features.

—

As it turns out, there’s nothing much to save.

When Bellamy drives the van over the last hill before the encampment, Clarke sits up straighter in her seat and gasps at what she sees.

It’s all been burned down.

All the houses, the buildings, are gone; and whatever remains, is blackened with fire. Smoke still rises from the ashes. This was _recent_.

Bellamy pulls over in the middle of what used to be the street, and Clarke steps out in a daze. She can see right into the building that used to house the hammocks. There’s nothing there anymore. Everything is in black and white and shades of gray, colour sucked out by fire.

She brings a hand to her mouth. Bellamy comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder.

“No,” she tells him immediately, reading that he’s trying to give her a semblance of comfort. “This is a good thing. It means the plan worked.”

“The plan?”

“They were going to figure out how to disrupt the shock collars,” Clarke explains. “I think this means… I think this means it worked.” If the destruction at the Arena was any indication of how the prisoners reacted when they were set free, it makes sense here. That her friends are free now, too.

She has to believe that.

“Good,” Bellamy says, casting a wary glance around them. “That means we can get out of here, right?” He’s got his rifle out— naturally, he’d stocked up on weapons before they left the Arena. He looks like the old Bellamy, except for his missing jacket.

She nods slowly, and turns to him. “Yes.”

—

They drive away, and an hour out they stop the van to recharge the battery. Clarke hops up on the hood, turns her face into the sun.

Bellamy leans against the hood, bracing his elbows next to her. “So where to now?”

She glances at him. “The plan hasn’t changed.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, well, we already got to a place where people don’t know who we are. And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t like it that much,” he adds dryly.

She fights off a grin. “Didn’t quite do the trick for me, either.”

He snorts. “Should we just keep going west?” He doesn’t sound like he cares very much; it’s just a casual suggestion. They’re wanderers without a home now.

The thought makes something in her chest give a twinge. She’s not sure she wants to be that, just a wanderer. She very much wants some goddamn peace, some certainty in waking up every morning and knowing she has a place that will be waiting for her no matter where she goes that day.

Something occurs to Clarke, and she spends a moment mulling it over before presenting the idea to Bellamy carefully. “Carlos lived in a village on the West Coast.”

She can only see him in profile, but she sees his lips tighten as he sees where she’s going. “Clarke…”

She keeps going, faster now. “They’re just a _tiny_ little village, Bellamy. He grew up there. If Carlos got out, he’ll go back there. And he’ll— they’ll help us.”

“How can you be so sure?” Bellamy asks her. There’s an edge to his voice. “Even if your friend would help us, you don’t know anything about his people.”

She sighs because he’s right, and leans back on her hands. “I don’t know, Bellamy. The way he talks about his people makes me want to believe it. I just— I _trust_ him.”

He looks up sharply, and she realizes why he’s been rather edgy about Carlos.

And she laughs because it’s ridiculous. “It’s not like that, Bellamy.”

He looks away, into the distance. “You sure about that?” His voice is hard, but there’s insecurity colouring it.

She gapes at him. “Do you actually think I would do that? After everything we’ve been through together, you think I’d just—”

“I don’t,” he cuts her off, quickly looking at her so she can see that he’s being earnest. “I definitely don’t think that. It’s _him_ I’m thinking that about.”

She sighs. “You don’t even know him.”

“I’m grateful that he helped you,” Bellamy shoots back. “But, Clarke. Come on. People don’t just _help_ without expecting something back.”

“You do,” she reminds him softly, reaching for his hand. “You do that.”

He sucks in a breath and meets her eyes. She watches his eyelids flutter in that way they do when he’s caught off guard by a compliment, or something that deeply touches him. She adores it, and as she watches the way he becomes momentarily speechless, she decides she wants to do that to him for the rest of their lives.

Her next words come naturally and casually without any forethought, as if the words have fallen from her tongue a thousand times before.

“I love you,” she says.

He absorbs that, and he looks mildly surprised at her words, that she said them. But it doesn’t appear to be earth-shattering news to him. She’s extraordinarily glad to see that; to know that even if she never had the courage to say it, he would’ve known.

He comes closer, though, and tips his head against hers so that their foreheads are pressed together. His hands find their way around her waist, thumbs stroking at the sides of her rounded tummy.

“I told you you didn’t have to say it,” he says gently.

“I needed to,” she insists. She needed to prove to herself that she could say it; that she could say it to him while the sky was blue and her eyes were dry and she was smiling, no matter how frightening the prospect of unrushed love may be. She needed to know that she still has the capacity to show love just for the sake of love. It’s a terrifying leap for her, in some ways, but she feels exhilarated on the other side.

She thinks about explaining this to him but she realizes she doesn’t need to when he murmurs, “ _Brave_ princess,” and she feels a smile spreading across her face at the callback before he cups her cheeks and kisses her.

He breaks from the kiss before it can even really start and adds, “I love you, too. You know that, right?”

She closes her eyes and lets the words spoken in that deep voice roll over her and with it, a wave of contentment. “Of course I do,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. She feels his lips on her eyelids, soft as a butterfly, and then he pulls back again.

“I almost forgot,” she hears him say, and she opens her eyes to see him fishing in his pocket for a second before he retrieves the wedding ring he’d shown to her at the Arena.

Her breath catches in her chest— she’d forgotten, too, in their haste.

Meanwhile, Bellamy frowns down at it. It’s got a bit of blood caked on the diamond, and he rubs at it with his thumb until it’s wiped away. It still looks a little dull, but it’s the most beautiful thing Clarke’s ever seen in her life for what it represents to her. “That’s gonna have to do for now,” he grins at the grubby looking thing, and offers it to her.

Instead of taking it, she gives him her hand, fingers outstretched. Without missing a beat he takes her hand and slides it onto her ring finger. They both stare at it for a long moment.

He clears his throat. “It’s not much,” he says. “We can’t have that big wedding you wanted, but—”

She looks up sharply. “ _Wedding_?”

He rubs the back of his head with one hand, avoiding her eyes.

She stares at him, and then she finally remembers.

It feels like forever ago that she was sitting across a campfire from Bellamy, and she was telling him about the things she used to want.

“Bellamy, you _sap_ ,” she finally cries, slapping him affectionately across the arm with her ringed hand. She’d said that _months_ ago.“You remembered all that?” It was months ago. She’s laughing, sort of, but she also feels very touched at the sentiment and is simultaneously trying not to cry (she’ll blame it on the pregnancy hormones).

He shakes his head and laughs too, the tips of his ears under his hair turning pink as he leans forward. “I know.”

“Bellamy, I didn’t need this,” she says. “It doesn’t matter to me whether we’re married or not. I just— I want you, and that’s all.”

“Okay,” he replies. “But… would it really be so bad to be married to me, too?” He grins lopsidedly, and she surges forward to kiss him again.

His arm wraps automatically around her waist and secures her body against his. His other hand finds its way into her hair and then he’s tilting his head and kissing her back.

He kisses and kisses her, and the way he does it leaves her feeling heady, but she can’t seem to pull away. Maybe she needs oxygen, but she needs Bellamy Blake more.

They break apart finally, when Clarke’s lungs start burning too much to ignore, but neither of them go very far.

“No,” she says breathlessly. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

—

They start driving again soon afterwards, mostly because Bellamy is getting antsy about the amount of time they’ve already spent here. He really just wants to keep moving. Which makes him think about Clarke’s suggestion, which makes him say, “So, about your friend’s village.”

She looks at him. “Are you changing your mind?”

“I never made a decision in the first place,” he reminds her good-naturedly. “Look, Clarke, I trust you, but I don’t know this guy at all. So I need to know. Are you _sure_ about him?”

She’s silent for a long moment. He knows she’s mulling over it, that she’s taking his question seriously. So when she finally slowly replies, “Yes,” he believes her.

“Okay,” he says with a nod. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

She eyes him. “I just find this change of heart a little strange.”

He sighs. “Clarke, you’re pregnant. We need to find someplace to settle down at least until… well...” He takes his eyes off the road to glance at her with a smirk. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to have to deliver our baby in the back of this van.”

She laughs. “Yeah, me neither.”

It’s a joke, but on the inside he’s actually _really_ worried about this. Childbirth can be hard, and he wants to find a good place for her before they get to that stage. “So?” he says expectantly. “Where do we find this place?”

“It’s on the Coast,” Clarke replies. “It had a name, before the bombs dropped. Carlos was telling me…” She frowns, clearly trying to remember, and then her expression clears. “Right. Venice Beach.”

—

They drive for a while, stopping for breaks now and then, but not for long.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whines at one point. “Look!” He offers a glance where she’s pointing and sees a tall looking sign in the distance.

Las Vegas, Nevada. He’s seen that sign in movies.

“We should stop and check it out.”

He scoffs. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Why _not_?”

“The last time we stopped to indulge your inner tourist,” Bellamy answers tersely, “we got kidnapped and separated for three and a half months. Or do you not remember?”

She’s got her face pressed to the window, but her shoulders sag and she sighs.

—

It doesn’t stop her, though.

“Bellamy!” She bounces up and down in her seat like a little kid, and it’s adorable. It also draws his eyes to her breasts, which he would use adjectives other than “adorable” to describe.

He casts his eyes in the direction that she’s looking so he won’t be caught staring at her chest. He’s gotten pretty good at that over the years.

It’s a ferris wheel— or rather, the remains of one. But it’s unmistakeable for what it is.

“Bellamy,” she says, awe in her voice, “I think this is _Disneyland_. Carlos was talking about this, too.” She gives him an excited glance. “That means we’re close. Really close.”

He presses down on the accelerator.

—

She laughs when they pass a faded billboard and nudges Bellamy’s shoulder. “Look, it’s Pauna.”

The mention of the monster at their execution nearly gives him a heart attack but then he takes a closer look at the thing and realizes it’s just an advertisement: _King Kong 360 3-D_ , it reads. And under that, a logo. _Universal Studios_.

He snorts. “How is it that amusement parks survived the apocalypse, but Los Angeles didn’t?” It’s a wasteland otherwise, honestly.

She responds with a question of her own. “Can we stop here?”

“That depends,” he replies. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

“No,” she says. He thinks that’s the end of that, before she adds conversationally, “But I’m really horny right now.”

Bellamy stops the van and reaches for her.

She laughs while climbing into his lap, settling herself on top of him. “That was too easy.”

Instead of answering, he grips her hips and ruts against her, listening with satisfaction when her giggles transition into moans.

It’s really cramped, and her larger tummy keeps them a little more apart than usual. Then her ass hits the steering wheel and she yelps in pain. Grinning, he reaches for the lever under his chair cushion to push the seat backwards a foot or two so they have more space.

Bellamy _finally_ gets his hands on her breasts, and groans at how full and heavy they feel in his hands. “Fuck, you’re amazing,” he can’t help but pant, watching her rub against him while he rolls her nipples between his fingers. Her hands on either side of him grip his headrest, and her head falls forward.

He leans forward a bit to kiss her. It’s hot and languid while they continue to move against each other, grinding hard but not at any sort of rushed pace. They have all the time in the world.

But he still gets impatient with the clothing in between them, although he _really_ doesn’t want to take his hands off her breasts, so he breaks the kiss to lean towards her shoulder, and he drags the strap of her tank and her bra down with his teeth. She helps him, peeling her shirt down to her waist so that he finally, finally can see all the perfect, creamy, skin that adorns her chest.

He takes a moment to kiss the twin scalpel scars above her breasts before he draws a nipple into his mouth without any warning. She seems to like that, if the way she’s wrenching at his hair is any indication. He grins against her skin and laves his tongue over her.

“Get this off,” she says breathlessly, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He leans back and pulls it off in one tug, and she drinks him in, blue eyes going darker than ever.

Bellamy likes to pride himself in his self-control, but when she scrapes her nails down his chest, he decides he had better speed things up.

They get rid of the rest of their clothing clumsily in the small space, enough so that she can sink onto him and they both sigh. Then she _clenches_ down around him, and he thinks his eyes might roll back into his head.

Clarke definitely notices that, and with a smirk she does it again before she rises up on her haunches and sinks back down on him again.

“Fuck,” he manages as she does this. Watching her perfect tits bounce and her head thrown back is so erotic that all other words seem to have fled his vocabulary. “ _Fuck_.” Then something occurs to him, and he scrambles for coherence. “Are— are you okay on top?”

She looks down at him, lips flushed and swollen from his kisses, eyes sparkling. “What do you mean,” she says, and it sounds like a moan.

“You’re not tired?”

She frowns, and starts fucking him with more vigour as if to prove a point. Oh, Christ.

She starts on him, voice all high and prissy. “Just because I’m _pregnant_ doesn’t mean I—”

He smirks and reaches between them to rub her clit, and her words cut off with a keen. Clarke comes relatively quickly after that, and always, just the sight of her eyelashes fluttering, the high, yelped curse combined with his name, is enough to bring him to the edge as well.

As if that wasn’t enough, he feels her inner walls flutter around him, and then purposely close tighter around him, drawing him in. She’s doing this on purpose. He looks up to find her watching him, flushed, sated, and a glow in her eyes. “Come _on_ , Bellamy,” she whispers, voice wanton and throaty.

Yeah, that’s enough.

Afterwards, she’s slumped against him and he has his hands splayed against her back, stroking circles into her skin. “So, you were saying you wanted to go outside?” he prods gently.

“Not really,” she mumbles after a minute. Her voice is muffled because her lips are pressed against his shoulder. “I just wanted to have sex.”

He sputters a laugh.

—

They hit the road again.

—

It’s two days later when they reach the ocean.

It’s a breathtaking sight; he’s seen the sea before, but not like _this_.

Not when it’s sunny, not when the water sparkles and rolls gently against the shore. Not when he’s able to jump out of the van and feel the treads of his boots sink into the perfect white sand. He can hear seagulls squawking in the distance, a gentle warm breeze stir the ends of his hair; the view casts in both directions endlessly, only blocked by tall palm trees that jut up from the sand.

They’re drawn to the water, and they roll up their pants, toe off their shoes and step into the water. It’s cool and perfect against his sore feet, and the sand underneath sinks between his toes. It’s a strangely ticklish sensation.

Clarke smiles in delight, throwing her hands up and wading her way through the knee-deep water. Feeling a playful mood come over him, he bends down to splash water in her direction.

It gets her in the back of her shirt, and she shrieks in indignation, stomping back in his direction with a vengeance in her eyes. “Can’t I just enjoy the water without someone trying to get me wet?” she yells at him.

He laughs. “I think you’ve misunderstood the point of water, Clarke—” He ducks as she scoops up water and flings it at his head. Still laughing, he backs up in the water, and she lunges at him, clearly with the intention of knocking him on his back in the water.

Instead, he’s ready and catches her, and with their combined momentum he spins her around in his arms, causing the water to splash up on all their clothes, but she’s laughing too now.

They’re mouths collide sometime after, when Bellamy is a little dizzy from spinning, and it’s messy and tastes salty and wet like the sea and is absolutely perfect.

Then he hears a sound from the shore, and they both break apart to look.

There’s a woman there, standing not too far from the shore watching them. There’s a basket upturned on the ground, and red fruit is spilling out of it like she’s just dropped it. She’s got a hand clapped to her mouth.

Clarke’s still got her arms winded around his neck, but she calls, “Wait!”

It’s too late. The woman takes off down the shoreline, abandoning her basket.

Neither of them move for a moment, simply watching as she runs away. “You want to go after her?” Bellamy asks Clarke.

Clarke squints after the woman, watching her figure become smaller and smaller as she sprints. She’s fast. “I don’t want to frighten her,” she says. “But we can follow the direction she was going in.” He nods and sets her down.

Without warning, she pushes him in the chest _hard_ , and he stumbles and goes down, falling on his elbows in the water with a huge splash.

She grins smugly, and he tries to grab her ankle to bring her down with him, but she’s ready, dancing away quickly.

She prances off back to shore, laughing. He shakes the wet hair out of his eyes and grins.

—

They take their time getting out of the water and into the van, and then they follow the direction the woman ran in. Sure enough, when they pull over the horizon of a tall hill, they find a village on the shore.

It’s smaller than Bellamy expected, just several wooden houses and buildings; not lined up like a street, but haphazardly scattered. It reminds him a little bit of Grounder villages back East.

Except… there’s something less foreboding about it. Maybe it’s the people.

The _people—_ There are men, women and children, lots of them. They wear loose clothes, but bright, colourful ones. He notices that they’re all tan-skinned and dark-haired.

They stop and stare when Bellamy gets out of the van, and when he rounds to Clarke’s side to open her door, he mutters, “You sure about this?”

She doesn’t answer as she clambers out of the vehicle. Her eyes are on the crowd gathering in front of them, staring as if he and Clarke are aliens. Her non-answer is an answer in itself, and he takes a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself for anything.

As they approach, Bellamy lets Clarke walk slightly in front of him. She knows more about these people than he does, so instead of focusing on speaking he lets his eyes catalogue the people in front of him.

The most conspicuous thing— no weapons.

Clarke clears her throat. “Hello.”

Someone pushes to the front of the crowd, and Bellamy recognizes her as the woman that had run away from them earlier. She’s got long, straight black hair, and large brown eyes. She points at them and says something rapidly in a high voice. It’s a different language, and although Bellamy doesn’t understand it he does recognize it.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” Clarke is saying, bewildered. “We don’t speak Spanish.”

The crowd stirs again, and Bellamy can feel tension settling over all of them. Unconsciously, he feels his hand drift towards the gun on his hip. As if sensing it, Clarke sends him a sharp look, like, _really_?

He sends one right back. Just because they can’t _see_ weapons, doesn’t mean they don’t have any.

Then someone speaks. It’s an older man leaning on a cane, and the way the others look at him with respect makes Bellamy think he must be a leader of some kind. “I can count on one hand the number of times foreigners have stumbled on us,” he says guardedly in English, words laced with an accent. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“We’re—” Clarke catches herself, and her eyebrows pull together. Bellamy waits.

He expects that she will give them different names, or tell a half-truth, because that’s what they always do. She looks up at him. He just nods at her; whatever she wants to say is fine by him.

She draws in a deep breath.“We’re Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake,” she says softly, “And we are the last survivors of the Sky People. And all we want is to be somewhere safe.” Her hand drifts, maybe unconsciously, to her own belly, and Bellamy sees the leader’s eyes be drawn to it too.

There’s a ripple of murmuring that goes across the crowd, and although Bellamy’s surprised at what Clarke just said he’s also… not. She’s looking at him right now, apologizing with her eyes. He shakes his head. It’s not needed. He gets it.

She’s tired of running. She’s tired of fighting, and keeping dangerous secrets. If they’re going to start over, she wants to start with a clean slate.

He wants that, too. _God_ , he wants that.

“Sky People?” The leader repeats dismissively, folding his arms. “That’s just a story. A bloody one.”

“It’s not,” Bellamy says, and feels eyes drawing towards him now, too. The woman who’d run away from them before now watches him with interest. Maybe he shouldn’t be saying this— maybe it’s for the best if they’re not known as who they really are. But it bothers him, suddenly, that the Sky People would be dismissed so quickly. Because they _existed_ , dammit, and they didn’t go through all that hardship and cruelty just to be forgotten. They were here, and they _mattered_. “We’re not just a damn story.”

Clarke speaks up again. “When the bombs fell, we were up in space,” She explains, and points up to the cloudless blue sky above them. “But we came back to Earth.” She bites her lip, looking nervous. “We accidentally landed in someone else’s territory. That’s why it got bloody.”

Quite a summary, Bellamy thinks dryly.

The leader, along with the others who have been listening with rapt attention, snorts a little derisively. “And if we are to believe you? What exactly makes you think we’d just let two strangers— ones who fully admit to having a violent past— live on our land?”

Clarke seems at a loss for a moment. She didn’t expect this, he knows. She expected to be welcomed, like Carlos did with her. “Because of Carlos,” she says.

The leader definitely stiffens then, and then he’s lifting his cane to reveal that the end of it that was dug into the sand has a sharp blade on it.

Before he can point it at Clarke, Bellamy automatically steps in front of her, shielding her from view.

“What do you know about Carlos?” the older man barks, pointing his spear at Bellamy’s throat instead. “He’s dead.”

Clarke is trying to get past Bellamy, but nope, he’s not letting that happen. She resigns herself to peeking around his arm. “He’s not dead,” she insists, but it’s quite clear she’s fighting a losing battle. “He was kidnapped, and so was I. But we got free.”

“So why isn’t he with you?”

Clarke says nothing, and the leader steps forward again, face twisting. Bellamy pushes Clarke back farther with his arms.

“We got separated,” Clarke says. “But he was my friend— Carlos is my friend. He told me about this place. I— I thought he would be here.” There’s clear confusion in her voice, and worry too. It’s clearly genuine, and Bellamy sees the leader pause at her words.

Bellamy takes over again. “Look,” he says calmly. “You don’t have to like us, or give us anything, or any of that. I sure as hell wouldn’t. Just,” He takes a deep breath, “ please let us stay on your land until she has her baby. Then we’ll take off again, if that’s what you want.” There’s silence following his words, and he’s aware there’s a faint pleading note to his voice but he can’t help it. There’s already been so much stress in their lives the past few months, and he just wants Clarke to be able to rest in the final part of her pregnancy. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The leader considers them for a long moment, and then he slowly lowers his spear.

—

It works. She’s almost not sure she believes it.

It doesn’t work as well as she thought it would, because they’re only begrudging after she tells them about her journey with Carlos, and even more suspicious when she can’t tell them what happened to him.

But her panic upon realizing that Carlos hasn’t made it back to his birthplace can’t be faked.

They seem to be able to sense their genuinity, or maybe they just haven’t had enough bad experiences to be cynical, and then Bellamy and Clarke head back to their van still parked on the hill, while the villagers watch with curiosity and suspicion.

Clarke doesn’t really care. Bellamy opens the back of the van, and they sit down in the back with their legs dangling off the rear bumper.

“Went better than I expected,” Bellamy comments dryly after a while.

She looks at him, and there’s the trace of a smile on his lips. “Looks like your worst fear is coming true,” she tells him. “We’ll be delivering our baby Junior in the back of this van, after all.” At the expression on his face, she laughs, and he drags a hand down his face.

“Don’t remind me.” He still looks disgruntled, so she smothers her (hysterical) giggles and covers his hand with hers.

“Better that,” she reminds him gently, “than while we’re slaves, and separated from each other.”

He’s silent.

“We’ll be fine,” she reassures him. “We’ll get through this.”

He looks down at her hand, then interlaces their fingers so that he can brush his thumb over her ring. He stays silent, brow still furrowed. He will always worry, she knows that; sometimes it’s all he knows how to do.

She leans towards him, and his eyes flick up to hers, and then down to her lips. He takes her cue, lifting his other hand to cup the back of her neck and pull her in for a sweet kiss. She draws in her legs and scoots closer.

He makes some sort of noise deep in his chest, and then all at once he bowls her over, so that she falls on her back with him kneeling on top of her, kissing her rather ferociously now. He pauses when he feels rather see her wince from the pressure of the hard metal of the floor of the van against her back. “Are you—”

“Don’t stop,” she says breathlessly, tugging on his belt loops.

“You sure?” She nods, and his knee comes up automatically to nudge between her legs. She spreads her thighs a little farther apart to allow him closer. He leans down to nip at her collarbone and she gasps at the sensation, clinging onto him and enjoying the way his hands, hot from the heat, slide under her shirt to grip her hips.

“I _really_ can’t wait to get you on a bed again,” he says lowly, and the sultry promise of his words makes her lose her breath for a moment. “But this’ll do for now.” He reaches for the hem of her shirt, and then they both pause when they hear a sound outside.

It’s a distant sound, like someone laughing far away in the village, but it’s a reminder that the back of the van is completely open, doors open wide.

Their eyes connect, and she can tell he’s thinking the same thing she is when he smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkle. “You wanna have sex in the pitch-black dark, Clarke?”

She rolls against him to get him going, because yes, they’re doing this; they’re having sex in the back of this transport van. Whatever. They’ve had sex in worse places. “Close the doors already.”

He laughs, gets up and does. The last thing she sees before he shuts out the light for the next half hour are the freckles on his cheeks catching from the sun as he smiles.

—

They live in the van like that for a while, and it’s— nice, in it’s own way. They steer clear of the villagers, and the villagers do the same. They don’t do a whole lot. But they spend a lot of time by the sea, exploring.

“ _Christ_ , look at this,” she hears Bellamy chuckle behind her, while she’s bending down examining seashells under the shallow water of the shore. “It’s so ugly.” She turns around to find him pointing at a a little dark thing scurrying around in the sand. It’s got claws and is about the size of her palm.

“It’s a crab,” she protests, “And it’s not ugly.” He continues grinning like a little shit so she puts her hands on her hips. “ _You’re_ ugly.”

“Words hurt,” Bellamy says dryly, pushing his dripping wet hair off his forehead. They’ve been spending the morning swimming. “What’s that you’re holding?”

She’s successfully derailed from defending the crab’s honour, looking down at the items in her hand. “I found something. I think it’s a piece of money.”

He comes closer. “That’s a quarter, all right. Guess we’re rich now.”

She shoots him a look. “And this one’s a seashell, I guess.” She points to it— It’s pink and smooth and beautiful, coiled, and she runs her thumb over it’s ribbed edges. On impulse, she presses the thing to her ear, straining for sound. He gives her an odd look, so she elaborates. “I heard that you can hear the ocean if you put your ear to a seashell.”

“Clarke, we’re standing right _next_ to the ocean.”

“I’m aware of that. Isn’t it pretty, though?”

“Prettier than the crab,” he comments, coming closer.

“What has he ever done to you?” she retorts. The crab chooses that moment to scurry towards her at a rapid pace, snapping its pincers menacingly. Both of them leap back in alarm, and Clarke shrieks. Then the crab continues scurrying past them up the beach, and they both relax slightly.

As her heart continues to beat rapidly, Clarke’s struck by the ridiculousness of it and giggles into Bellamy’s shoulder. “Can’t believe we’re scared of crabs now,” she snorts. “It’s pathetic.”

“Speak for yourself,” he replies lightly, putting his arm around her waist. “Did you see the size of those claws?”

—

One evening, they are lounging on the roof of the van under the stars; Bellamy is lying on his stomach, and Clarke is trying to give him a back massage. Operative word is ‘trying’, because she keeps getting distracted pressing kisses to the whipping scars on his back, especially the deep one that’s a little raised up and extends to the back of his neck.

“Clarke,” he says in a pained voice, muffled because his head is resting in the cradle of his arms, “This isn’t making me feel any less tense.”

Clarke lifts her head, about to make a retort, but then she hears a noise.

“Did you hear that?” she asks, bolting up. He rolls over too, his hand already on his holster and on high alert.

“Yeah, I did,” he says, scanning the growing darkness. “There.” He points.

She squints, and she just makes out a small child kneeling in the sand not too far from where they are. She strains her ears, and she recognizes the sound of crying.

“They’re hurt,” she says, alarmed, and even while he’s saying, “Clarke, wait—” she’s carefully sliding off the roof, onto the windshield and then to the ground and heading in that direction.

He jumps off the roof in one bound and is caught up to her before she takes two steps. They creep closer, and it’s a little girl from the village, maybe five or six at the most, sitting in the sand and crying. Clarke immediately sees why— there’s a gash on her knee, and it’s bleeding profusely.

Bellamy swears softly, and the girl quiets, noticing them. It looks like she’d fallen and cut herself on something.

“Hi,” Clarke says, kindly as she can. She tries to come closer, but the little girl shies away, eyes large and round as she takes her in. “Hey, I just want to help,” she protests.

The girl says something in Spanish, and Clarke and Bellamy look at each other. Clarke reaches forward again, and the girl begins to cry again.

“ _Duele_ ,” she keeps saying, as tears stream down her cheeks. “ _Duele_.”

“Let me,” Bellamy commands Clarke when it’s clear her attempts to calm the child aren’t working, and she falls back, letting him take over. The girl instantly looks a bit more at ease; Clarke thinks to herself that Bellamy probably looks more like the people she’s used to, but when the little girl opens her arms after a minute and he lifts her into his arms, she decides nope, he’s just very good with kids.

The little girl wraps her arms around Bellamy’s neck and he looks at her. “I think we have a med kit in the van.”

So that’s where they go. Bellamy sits in the driver’s seat with the little girl in his lap, and he strokes her hair while Clarke cleans the little rocks and dirt out of the gash.

Every time the antiseptic wipe goes over the cut skin, the girl wails from the sting. “Hey,” Bellamy soothes, bouncing her a little on his knee. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” And he keeps talking to her until they’re done, and Clarke’s bandaged the area.

By this point the child doesn’t seem so apprehensive of Clarke, even returning Clarke’s gentle smile with a small one of her own. Bellamy stiffens suddenly, and Clarke looks over her shoulder.

There’s an older woman from the village watching them. “Isabella,” she says sharply, and the little girl in Bellamy’s lap perks up, hopping off his knee. She walks— rather, limps a little— to the woman’s side, and then she’s just staring suspiciously at the two of them.

“She was hurt,” Clarke feels the need to explain. “I just… bandaged her up.”

The woman scoops up the child into her arms and after one last, lingering glance she walks back to the village.

Bellamy snorts quietly at the silent exit. “What’s that thing they say about good deeds?”

—

As it turns out, though, his cynicism is misplaced this time.

That morning, the leader of the village approaches them while they’re sitting around their campfire boiling water for tea, and he says that there’s a house ready for them, if they’d like it. Clarke and Bellamy exchange looks. Bellamy seems to be fine with it, so she tells the leader that they accept the invitation. They are led to a little house on a hill, a significant distance from the rest of the village.

The woman that had run away from them the first time they showed up at the beach is now their guide; she introduces herself as Sofia as she shows them around the small living space.

“Thank you,” Clarke says sincerely as Sofia shows them around the small space. “I know this is a huge leap of faith for you.”

Sofia nods. “You know, Chief has a soft spot for children,” she nods towards Clarke’s stomach, “and he was definitely impressed by your healing ability,” (Clarke sighs inwardly), “but even then, he wouldn’t have given you the benefit of the doubt if Carlos wasn’t his son.” Noting their looks of shock, she shrugs and says, “He’s been missing for two years. Chief is able to hide his pain by now.” She points to the bed in the corner. “I hope that’s fine. It’s small, I know, but only one man used to live here before.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke says. She gives Bellamy a sly glance. “We don’t take up that much bed space.”

He returns the small smile.

Sofia seems to note it as well, eyebrows raising. “Oh, are you…?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, forcefully, because she’s noticed this woman eyeing Bellamy with interest since the moment they showed up. There’s a sticky moment. Bellamy’s watching the exchange with confusion. “Thank you again, Sofia.”

Sofia looks at Bellamy, and he smiles a little at her. Clarke figures he’s trying to keep up an appearance of friendliness but she also doesn’t like the way Sofia glows in response.

Clarke clears her throat, and Sofia leaves.

He doesn’t ask. “Well,” he says, “I guess this is home now.”

They look around; it’s a tiny space, the bed in the corner, a small woodstove in the other, an adjoining room with nothing much in it at all except for an old wooden dresser.

“It’s perfect,” Clarke says happily, running her hand over the stove. “Better than living out of a kidnapper’s old van.”

“And there’s a _bed_ ,” he says.

She rolls her eyes as if her own thoughts weren’t going that way, too.

—

After that, they stay more or less in isolation asides from the occasional going into the village for supplies. They work on cleaning their little cottage and making it feel a little more like it’s theirs; Bellamy tries to fix up the leaky roof, and Clarke starts a garden in the front, growing tomatoes and wild onions. The rest of the village largely steers clear of them, still not quite trusting them, and Clarke knows Bellamy’s happy with that. But she’s not.

“Bellamy, we should be interacting with them,” she frowns in contemplation one night. “They should learn to trust us if we have any hope of being allowed to stay here after the baby’s born.”

“Personally, I don’t have any problem being left alone with you,” he says, voice muffled because she’s straddling his face at the moment.

She sighs. “I just think— _Bell_!” He licks a line straight up her sex, flicking his tongue over her clit at the end, and she gasps, tightening her grip on the headboard.

He sounds very smug. “That’s the _only_ thing you should be thinking right now.”

—

One morning Clarke wakes up and she feels the baby kick. She gasps, and Bellamy bolts up in bed immediately, ripped straight from sleep.

“What?”

She waves her arm frantically. “Nothing. I mean, _not_ nothing— the baby kicked!” She feels it again, that strong butterflying sensation, stronger than it’s ever been before.

Bellamy leans forward and presses his hands to her stomach too. They stare at each other, wide-eyed and bleary from sleep, and then she feels it again. She knows he feels it too, at the way his hands jump over her skin.

He seems at a loss for words, and all she can do is smile a little tearfully.

“Isn’t it amazing?”

He blinks dazedly. “ _We_ did that.” He doesn’t sound like he quite believes it, and she’s not sure she does, either. She feels like it hits her differently every time.

She feels the kick again. He does too, looking down.

“Strong,” he says finally, full of admiration. He looks up at her, gazing at her with warm eyes, and looks to be contemplating as he takes in her mess of blonde tangles, the flush glowing on her skin, and the sparkle in her eyes. “Just like you.”

“Or like you,” she counters. Really, they could go all day with that, so she stops it there. “Bellamy, sometimes I just can’t believe… I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

He nods in agreement, eyes soft.

She kisses him, gentle and chaste in the lazy morning sunlight. When she pulls away she finds herself staring at her hand planted on his chest, the way her fingers splay out and the gems on her ring sparkle in the sun.

He catches her staring at it, and then says, out of the blue, “We could still get married, you know.”

She looks up at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion at his tone of voice, like he’s suggesting it’s a task they just check off the to-do list for the day. “You know we need an official for that.” And she’s not sure when they’ll ever get that.

“Who says?” She looks at him and he’s smiling a bit, and tugging her hand. “Come on. Let’s get married right now.” His tone of voice is light, and joking.

It’s spontaneous and completely silly, but that’s exactly what Clarke thinks she needs. She changes into the only white, flowy shirt she owns, and Bellamy puts on his least worn out pair of jeans, and they go out into the morning sunshine.

They wade into the sea until the water laps gently at their ankles, and then they turn and face each other. They breathe steadily, blue eyes meeting brown, and it’s like this is any other normal day.

It is, really.

“This is our altar,” Clarke announces, reaching forward to take his hands.

He frowns. “Hold on, aren’t you supposed to walk towards me or something?”

God, he’s right. Clarke doesn’t remember anything. “Well, Bellamy, there are also supposed to be bridesmaids and a best man and an _audience_ , but—” she catches herself before she can say _they’re all dead_ and spoil the mood.

He doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, he seems introspective as his gaze drifts as if he’s tinkering with an idea. “I think…” he says slowly, with a deep breath, “I think Lincoln would be my best man,” He meets her eyes once and then looks slightly to his left as if expecting to see the man there himself.

Clarke feels a pang in her chest at just the mention of the name, as it invokes the image of the man in her mind immediately; a man with a dark gaze, gleaming black tattoos, a fierce demeanor and a heart softer than any other she had ever met. “He was a good man,” she says softly.

“The best,” Bellamy agrees, his voice cracking a little. And then, quite suddenly, his face breaks into a smile as something occurs to him. “He’d probably put together a long speech,” he chuckles, “and sugarcoat the story of how we first met.”

Clarke remembers the day they tied up and tortured Lincoln, but when her memory calls on it this sunshiney day, it doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Bellamy goes on. “Octavia would be a bridesmaid, or something. That is, if you and her were on speaking terms at the time.”

She can’t help but giggle, feeling tension leaving her body at the nonchalant way that they are talking about them. “I think we’d pull it together for the wedding, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he says, sounding unconvinced. “My mother would probably force Octavia to forgive you for whatever great _sin_ you’d committed this time and put on the fucking dress.” His voice is laden with a joking sarcasm as he says this, but it softens into something genuine as he continues. “She’d sit in the front row and go through a whole box of tissues before the ceremony even started.”

Clarke looks where he’s looking, to the beach where the chairs for the audience would be, and wishes (not for the first time) that she had had the opportunity to meet Aurora Blake. “My dad would walk me down the aisle,” she says, “My mom would sit in the back with Kane and judge people.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Monty and Jasper would blow something up halfway through, and Murphy would spend the entire time at the bar.”

“Fucking Murphy,” Bellamy agrees. “Miller’d have to stop me from decking him. And Finn would sit in the front making those moony eyes at you and I’d _have_ to go deck him.”

“Don’t deck him,” Clarke admonishes. “Maybe he’s looking at Raven.”

“Bridesmaid?”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s your maid of honour, then?”

She thinks about it for a second. “Can it be Wells?”

He snorts, ducking his head so that she’s treated to the sight of his curls flopping over his forehead. “Wells?”

“Yes, and he’d wear a light pink dress just like the rest of the bridesmaids.”

“A light pink dress?” he repeats, shoulders shaking as he strains not to laugh.

She pretends to frown. “You know what, I think you’re right. Green was always more his colour.”

They both crack up laughing, momentarily letting go of each others’ hands to bend over double, because it’s just absurd, trying to put all their people into their jobs for a wedding, and yet it’s the happiest thing she could imagine for the two of them to do, and with all the time and distance put between the two of them and their pasts, today it doesn’t hurt at all to talk about their people like this. It’s wonderful.

“Okay,” Clarke laughs after a minute, “Really, we should just do this and get it over with, because I think my toes are getting wrinkly under the water.”

Bellamy smoothes over his features into a more solemn one, but Clarke sees the sparkle in his eyes anyway. “Right. Okay.”

She nods, and there’s a long silence between them where they just stare at each other, suddenly at a loss. Clarke voices what she’s thinking after a while. “Um… Do you remember the words?”

“No,” Bellamy grumbles, tossing his head up to the sky to squint at it as if it’s done him a personal wrong. “I didn’t really have the opportunity to attend a lot of weddings on the Ark.” His mouth twists a little as he considers. “Something about being with the other through sickness?”

“Through good times and bad?” Clarke throws in.

He looks at her quickly and grins. “Wait, I remember— for richer or for poorer—”

“For better— “

“For worse—”

“I will love—”

“But what about the part about ‘I take thee—’”

They’re both snorting quietly with laughter now, and Clarke thinks it’s funny that they are making all these vows when really it’s the same thing they’ve been doing for years for each other. They’ve been married long before any of this. “To be my lawfully wedded husband,” she tells him, squeezing his hands gently with her own.

“Likewise,” he says with a wink.

“So I’m your husband, now?” She snorts. He clearly didn’t think that one through.

“Yes,” he says with a completely straight face. “Well, I think we’re done here.”

“There’s still one part left,” Clarke says, sobering up immediately upon remembering it.

He tugs at her hands, impatient. “Which is?”

She looks at him, his lively brown eyes, his cupid’s bow mouth, the freckles splashed against his brown skin, the dark hair curled around his ears, and says softly, “Til death do us part.”

They’re silent for a moment or two, the only sounds to be heard the ocean lapping steadily around their feet and the sounds of their own breathing as if they are the only two people left in the world.

After what feels like a very long time, Bellamy repeats her words gravely. “Til death do us part.”

Again, they fall silent, and Clarke knows they’re thinking about the same things, the same past that haunts them both and will haunt them until the end of their days, whenever that might be. She doesn’t want to think about that right now. “You may kiss the bride,” she reminds him, trying to keep her tone light.

His mouth twitches. “There _is_ no bride. You’re my husband, remember—” Clarke shuts him up by clamping a hand around his neck and pulling him down into a searing kiss.

He kisses her back immediately, and his hands slide from her waist to the backs of her thighs. He squeezes them briefly, and Clarke takes the hint, pushing off the ground at the same time that he lifts her up so that she can wrap her legs around his waist.

He carries her back to the cottage that way, and then he swings her legs over his other arm to carry her over the threshold bridal style. “Saw it in a movie once,” he explains.

She laughs while he lets her down onto her own two feet in the middle of the room. “You’re such a romantic, aren’t you?”

He smiles and kisses her instead of answering. “Fuck, I forgot to put the ring on you,” he rumbles against her mouth, and pulls away, actually looking a bit put off by this particular blunder. “Isn’t that something that happens at weddings?”

“There are a lot of things that happen at weddings.” She runs her hands down his chest. Her hormones are in full swing these days. “Right now I’m more concerned with what usually happens _after_ the wedding.”

He catches on, gaze going dark and hot on her. “I like the way you think.”

—

Time passes, and Clarke’s belly grows to an almost ridiculous size. She also feels a lot like the beach ball she sees the children down in the village playing with sometimes.

She feels a little awkward and clumsy in her own body, but Bellamy looks at her the way he always has. They have to be a little more creative during sex, though, navigating around the baby that’s growing in between them. Sometimes they’ll tumble into bed together and it ends in laughter instead of moaning, and that’s still perfectly fine with Clarke.

—

Then she starts getting contractions. Not real ones, though; they feel more like pinches in the muscles low in her body, and they go away if she starts moving. But they still hurt.

“Have you thought about labour?” he asks her seriously one day, while they’re both watering the plants in their tiny little front garden and she doubles over a bit because of another contraction that’s hit.

She’s unprepared for the question. “A little bit,” she admits, straightening up. She’s not going to admit her apprehension, though. “Why?”

He reaches down to wrench a weed out of the ground. “We should have a plan.”

“A plan?” she can’t help but snort out a laugh. “What is this, are we going into battle?”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters. She can’t wipe her smirk off her face, at least until he adds, softly, “I just want it to go smoothly.”

Right, she’d almost forgotten for five seconds what a worrywart he is. “I don’t know,” she says, growing serious. “I just assumed we’d use the bed.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“What did you have in mind?”

He shrugs. “You should do whatever you think is comfortable. But my mom, she gave birth squatting. Gravity helps the process along, and all that.”

Clarke’s not used to that— on the Ark, most mothers gave birth lying on their backs. But then again, there was also a lot of medical equipment around to help it along. And now, well, it’s just her and Bellamy.

She chews her lip in thought. “We’ll see.”

—

The contractions continue in the following weeks, and suddenly Clarke is hit with a lot of back pain and swollen ankles from carrying the extra weight around. Bellamy sticks by her side even more than usual, and she knows he thinks she’s close. She does, too. And that makes her think about what’s going to happen afterwards.

“Do you ever think about Xander?” she asks him quietly one night. They’re sitting together in the light of a single candle in their cottage. The only sound asides from their breathing are the crickets chirping outside and the waves rushing against the shore.

His hands pause in their massage of her ankles before he resumes the soothing movements. “Of course I do,” he says, voice even. She can hardly see his face, but she can imagine that he’s got the same melancholic expression that she does right now.

She leans her hands back against the bed. Her legs are outstretched in front of her, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, now working his hands up her calves. She sighs at the relief, then says, “I hope he’s okay.”

“We did what we could to help him. He’s with his real dad now.”

“Yeah,” Clarke acquises. “But I still miss him.” When he merely nods, she adds, “He’ll probably grow up and think we’re the enemy.”

Bellamy chuckles a bit then, but it sounds a bit sad. “Well, he’s not wrong.” Clarke smiles painfully too, thinking about the destruction they left behind in their escape. But she doesn’t dwell on it; she has something else to say.

“Sometimes,” she goes on, “I think what our baby will think about us, too.” He’s silent, and she bites her lip, suddenly trying to keep tears at bay. “Bellamy, what are we going to tell them?” she whispers into the darkness. “What are they going to think when they learn their parents are _monsters_?” And she can’t help her voice from cracking right then.

“You’re not a monster,” he says.

She shakes her head at his denial. “You know you’re thinking it too.”

He’s silent again for a while, mulling it over while he continues to run his hands over her calves. “This is what we’re going to do,” he finally says, calm and assured. “We’re going to tell them everything they want to know. And if they hate us after that? Fine, I can’t blame them. We’ll love them anyway.” He puts down her leg and gets onto his hands and knees over her. Flicking his gaze quickly up to hers for permission, he gently pushes her shirt up over her stomach so he can press a soft kiss right above her belly button. “That’s what parents do.”

She reaches forward to thread her hand into his curls as he rests his head on her stomach. She thinks of her own mom, and she just nods. “You’re right. That’s what they do.”

—

Clarke’s water breaks on a particularly warm night. Both of them are already prepared for this; she’d recognized her contractions coming more frequently and stronger in the hours beforehand. She’d washed herself, with his help. Bellamy’s got a fire going, and a bucket of water simmering over it, and towels he’d acquired from the village. They’re ready.

At least, that’s what Bellamy keeps telling himself as he walks her around the cabin. She’d wanted to keep walking, but she clings onto his arm and stops to sway with her eyes screwed tightly shut.

“You act like I’m going to drop dead or something,” she snarls at him while he’s trying to steady her, and she shakes off his hand on her shoulder.

Well, he can’t pretend like he’s not nervous. He keeps a grip on her elbow, but stops touching her otherwise. He wants to do more, keeps asking her if she needs anything, until she hisses between gritted teeth that her body will do all the work for her, thank you _very_ much, and he decides shutting the hell up is the best course of action at this point.

The hours go on, and somewhere in between she cries out in pain and her knees buckle. He’s there to catch her, and she falls against his chest. He lowers them both slowly to the floor. “Bed?” he asks sharply. She nods, and he scoops her up and takes her there, depositing her gently.

But as soon as she’s there, she’s already shaking her head, eyes still screwed shut. “No,” she gasps, “I don’t like it here.” He helps her back up, but she sags against him. “But I’m so _tired_ , Bellamy.”

He does a quick assessment. Her hair is matted down and her loose shirt drenched with sweat, and her legs are shaking.

“Okay,” he decides, and lowers them both to the ground, so that they’re squatting. But he knows she can’t support herself, so he hooks his arms under hers and lets her lean back against his chest. “Does that work?”

She nods rapidly, head falling back onto his shoulder. “Talk to me,” she gasps.

He blinks, a little surprised at the change of heart. “About what?”

She grits her teeth, tendons in her neck straining. “ _Anything_!”

Bellamy’s not one to deny her, so he opens his mouth and starts talking about the first thing he can think of. “Hey, do you remember the first day we met?” She doesn’t answer, but she nods at him to keep going. “You told me not to open the Dropship door. You and your prissy little voice—” here he laughs, “I was so into you from the start, it was ridiculous…” While he rambles her hand finds its way to his and she squeezes so hard he feels like his bones are breaking. He ignores it, goes on to tell her about the first time he taught her to shoot, and from there his endless thoughts about her over the years come pouring out. He goes on for what feels like hours, until his voice feels hoarse, and even then he keeps talking, transitioning into Greek myths that fall easily off his tongue because he’s told them so many times. Occasionally she’ll snarl in frustration, he’ll pause, and then she’ll snarl at him to keep _going_.

She’s close, he can see it from her change in breathing and the way she’s straining, pushing so very hard. And then the door to their cottage swings open. Bellamy has just enough time to think— _Really_?— before he registers the person standing in the doorway.

He’s just a teenager, maybe eighteen or so— he’s got curly hair and tan skin like the rest of them, but he’s not someone that Bellamy’s seen from his limited exposure to the village before. He’s also out of breath.

He and Bellamy stare at each other stupidly for a split second, but unexpectedly it’s Clarke who speaks first, gasping out, “ _Carlos_?”

The boy’s eyes snap to Clarke. “Clarke!” he shouts excitedly, and then he stops. “ _Dios mio_. I just had to walk in while your baby was trying to crawl out of you, didn’t I?”

Bellamy’s heard enough. He has no idea what’s going on, or where Carlos suddenly sprung from, but Clarke trusts Carlos, and that’s good enough for him at this moment. Both of them are exhausted, and he thinks just what they need is an extra pair of hands. “Hey,” he barks. “Come over here and help.”

Carlos looks like he’s about to puke, so Bellamy softens his voice. “You have to catch the baby.” He could do it himself, but he’d have to let go of Clarke from the back to do that, and she’s clinging to him like he’s the only thing tethering her to the edge of a colossal cliff.

Carlos finally seems to relent, kicking the door shut with his foot. “I could get someone from the village to help—”

There’s no time for that, and he doesn’t want to overwhelm Clarke right now with strangers. “Just get over here. Wash your hands,” Bellamy orders, nodding at the bucket of warm water in the corner.

“Clarke never mentioned you were this bossy,” Carlos mutters, but he complies. And then he kneels by them, eyes glued in between Clarke’s legs. “Wow, his head is big.”

Clarke half laughs, and then it turns into a choked scream. Bellamy holds onto her as she tenses back against him. He murmurs nonsense words into her ear now, and she screams things at him that he doesn’t really hear, and it’s a haze for a while.

It feels like forever later when a wailing cuts through the air, Clarke sags against Bellamy, and Carlos is gently lifting a red little baby in his arms announcing the arrival of their little _girl_.

It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, he thinks in that moment. But he keeps sentiment at bay for now. Upon Bellamy’s instruction the boy wraps the baby in the warm towels he’s laid aside.

And then when it’s over, and Clarke’s breathing, still deep and harsh, begins to even out, he talks Carlos through sterilizing the clamp for the umbilical cord.

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Carlos notes, handing off the baby, still wailing, into Clarke’s outstretched hands.

“I have,” Bellamy responds. Sure, it’s been something like twenty years, but there are some things that stay burned into your memory forever, and that’s one of them. He notices Carlos’ hands are shaking as he prepares to cut it. “You’re doing good, Carlos.”

“Do you want to do it?” Carlos asks. “The tradition when I was growing up was that the father should cut it.”

Bellamy blinks, shakes his head. He doesn’t want to leave Clarke. But she turns her face tiredly into his shoulder. “You should do it,” she says, sounding weary. “I’m fine now.”

So he does, leaving her to lean against the foot of the bed, and feels more emotional than ever twenty minutes later when the afterbirth has passed and finally, it’s over. Bellamy dimly registers blood on his hands. It’s the first time in recent memory that blood stains his palms and he feels _happy_.

He washes up as Clarke snuggles closer with the baby, who’s still crying. He hears Clarke say to Carlos, “What do you think, Carlos? Who does she look like, me or Bellamy?”

“The only thing she looks like is a wrinkled old tomato, to be honest,” Carlos responds, and Bellamy hears Clarke’s laugh, sleepy and relieved. “ _God_ , I almost forgot how much babies cry.”

He sounds irritated, and Bellamy turns around to frown. He still remembers his mother telling Octavia to shush, for fear of being heard. “Let her,” he says quietly amongst the sounds of wailing. “Let her be as loud as she wants.”

A little while later, Clarke hands off the baby to Bellamy and dozes off, leaving him and Carlos alone.

Carlos sits on the stool in the corner and watches. Bellamy ignores him, choosing instead to look down at the child— his child, his and Clarke’s— this child that they made together.

Looking down at that pink little face as it yawns against his chest, he thinks the creation of his daughter is the most wholeheartedly _good_ thing he’s ever done in his life. Almost on instinct, while her little mouth is still outstretched, he nudges her lips with his index finger, and she latches onto it, sucking on it. It reminds him of Octavia, and his heart aches.

He forgets Carlos is here for a moment. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs. “I promise I’ll do better this time. I _swear_ on my life, I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” he whispers these last words fiercely, trying to get himself to believe them, because he’s suddenly seized with terror at the prospect of losing yet another child he’s trying to raise.

“I think she believes you, _amigo_ ,” Carlos calls dryly from across the room, and Bellamy is startled out of his reverie.

The baby yawns again, and Bellamy finally takes a moment to size up the boy sitting in the room with them. “So you’re Carlos.” He notes, with sudden surprise, that the boy is wearing Bellamy’s old Ark-issue jacket, the one he’d lost after he was kidnapped. “That’s my jacket you’re wearing,” he tells him.

Carlos looks down, surprised. “Fuck, it is? I just picked it up from the Market. Yeah,” he says at Bellamy’s look, “I don’t know what Clarke told you, but we escaped after she left. We figured out that the collars had to be deactivated with a code, and we worked on it til we figured it out. And then we burnt that whole hellhole down and left.”

“And then you went back to the Market,” Bellamy deduces. “To the Sandmen.”

Carlos smiles big. “It took months, _amigo_. We freed people as we went across the Dry Zone. We liberated them, and we burnt down everything the Sandmen ever stood for.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I felt like a hero. And then when it was all over, when we were certain all those bastards would never hurt anyone ever again, we all went our separate ways. We all got to go home.” He sighs happily. “I can’t wait to tell Clarke.”

It sounds like a grand tale to tell. It sounds like the kind of adventure that Bellamy and Clarke would have had, if this were a long time ago. Except somehow when _they_ tried to save people, they ended up being villains instead of heroes. For once, Bellamy’s just glad that he and Clarke weren’t the ones who were doing the saving this time; that they were here in this corner of the world, away from the action, and just _living_.

But Bellamy doesn’t say any of that. He just says,“She’ll be glad to hear it.”

Carlos shrugs, eyes fixing on him shrewdly. “So you’re Bellamy,” he says knowingly. “Clarke talked about you a lot.”

Bellamy’s gaze drifts to Clarke, still dozing with her head on her shoulder, slumped against the cushions. Carlos goes on.

“She loves you,” Carlos says. “The things she was willing to do to find you…” he shakes his head and mutters something in Spanish before going on, “I’ve _never_ met a person who’s loved as fiercely and deeply as she loves you. You know that, don’t you?”

Bellamy can’t find it in himself to speak right then so he simply nods, not taking his eyes off her sleeping face.

“Good,” Carlos replies. “You’d be an idiot not to.”

Bellamy thinks about all the time he’s known Clarke, in the early days and later, and thinks to himself that he’s been an idiot for a long time. “You’re still wearing my jacket,” he says instead, and Carlos cracks a grin.

“Not to be distracted, I see.” He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders and tosses it to him. “What’s the insignia on it mean, by the way?”

Bellamy looks down briefly at the Ark symbol on the back of the jacket before throwing it over the back of his chair. “Symbol of our people.” And then, he thinks, oh to hell with it— “Sky People.” He keeps his eyes on Carlos when he says it, to gauge his reaction.

Carlos simply blinks. “So you’re real.”

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Bellamy notes. He doesn’t seem very bothered, either.

Carlos shrugs. “I always guessed there was something different— Clarke said she was from the East, but she wasn’t, really. I could tell. She wasn’t like them.”

Bellamy studies his expression shrewdly, but there isn’t any hint of disingenuity there. Clarke starts to stir in her sleep, and Carlos immediately gets up, stretching. “I should probably go. I just got back,” Carlos tells him. “And the first thing I did was run here, when they told me Clarke was here too. I have to go say hello to my people.” A smile tugs at his lips. “I’ll tell Clarke everything later. I think you two deserve some time together, after all the time you spent apart.”

“Thank you, Carlos,” Bellamy says.

Carlos drops his arms from his stretch and studies him. “You don’t seem like the kind of man that those words come easy for.”

“They don’t,” Bellamy replies honestly. And then, to prove his point: “Thank you.”

The younger man nods and crosses over to the door. It swings shut behind him at the same time that Clarke opens her eyes and seeks Bellamy’s immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, as always finding himself get lost in her ocean-blue eyes, and falling onto the edge of the bed beside her head.

She smiles tiredly. “Hey.” She runs a hand through her hair, which is now frizzing with humidity. “Well, I’m glad that’s over.”

He chuckles and involuntarily flexes his hand, which still feels a little sore from how hard she was holding it. She catches the motion and winces.

“Oh, god. I did— I _said_ some nasty things, didn’t I?”

“Not really,” Bellamy wheedles. She stares at him dubiously. “Well, you did threaten to castrate me so I couldn’t get you pregnant again.” Among other things.

She pretends to think, looking up at the ceiling. “Hmm. I stand by that one.” They both grin, and then he swings his legs over the side so he’s lying on the narrow strip of mattress that she’s not already taking up, looping his free arm around her shoulders. At this point, most of the night is already over— through the cracks in the roof and the window that looks over the sea, they can both watch the sun begin to rise over the horizon.

Clarke reaches for their baby again, and he hands the bundle over without hesitation.

“Have you thought about names at all?” he asks her.

She glances at him, seeming surprised. The idea of a name hadn’t even occurred to her, apparently. “No. Haven’t you?”

He smiles tiredly. “I’ve already named a baby once before in my life, I figured I should let you have a turn.”

She looks back at their daughter’s sleeping face, looking bewildered. “I— I don’t know. Maybe something like Raven or…” Her voice is gentle, “Octavia, if you’d like that?”

He squeezes his eyes shut a moment before opening them. “No,” he replies evenly. And then, even though he told himself he wouldn’t try to influence her decision, he can’t help but add, “I don’t want to name our daughter after someone who’s already dead.”

Unexpectedly, she exhales in relief. “Good, me neither.” She strokes her thumb over the baby’s chubby face. “Then we have to think of something else. Some other girl’s name. Ideas?”

They sit there for a few minutes, silently mulling it over. Clarke sputters a laugh suddenly.

“You know what’s ridiculous?”

“What?”

“I can’t think of a _single_ name right now that doesn’t already belong to someone we used to know.”

He grins despite the bittersweet nature of that statement. They’ve known a lot of people in their lives, and most of them are dead now.

“I don’t understand how people name their kids. My parents named me after an author. How lame is that?”

“Not at all,” Bellamy deadpans. “I think we should name her Homer to continue the tradition.”

She hits him across the chest with surprising strength for someone who’s just squeezed a baby out of them. “I don’t know why I asked.”

He smiles a little; he doesn’t know either, because it seems his naming abilities extend only so far as mythology.

Inspiration strikes.

She notices immediately. “What? What is it?”

He thinks about it, how to explain this to her, and when he finally speaks, it’s slow and careful. “You know I didn’t know my dad at all.” Clarke nods; he goes on, clearing his throat. “I don’t know much about the Filipino side of me. My mom didn’t know how to make their food, and she didn’t know Tagalog, but she loved mythology just as much as I do.”

“Of course she did,” Clarke prods him gently. “Go on.”

“She told me some of the Tagalog myths that he told her,” Bellamy says, staring out the window at the sea. “There was this one that’s always kind of stuck with me. A creation myth.” Clarke sits up with interest. “In the story, there were these two gods: Bathala, the Supreme God, and Aman Sinaya, goddess of the sea. The two of them were rivals and they fought each other endlessly.”

“I’m not sure I want to name her after people who were always at war,” Clarke murmurs.

He smiles. “Hold on, I haven’t gotten to the point.” (“When do you ever?” she mutters, but he chooses to ignore that.) “There was another— in Tagalog, she was the personification of the North Wind. She put a stop the conflict by turning into a bird and flying between the warring gods’ realms to bring them together. Because of her efforts, Bathala planted a bamboo tree as a token of friendship on the ocean floor.”

“That’s sweet,” Clarke says. “You shouldn’t have told me, now I have impossible standards for wedding gifts.”

“Let me finish,” he replies good-naturedly. “One day, the North Wind heard voices come from the bamboo wood, and she realized that there were two people trapped inside, calling to her. She pecked the trunk open, freeing them, and those two people were the first two humans to exist. They went on to populate the world, after she saved them.”

Clarke stirs against him. “And did this North Wind have a name?” She asks, clearly having guessed where he’s going with this.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Her name was Amihan.”

Clarke’s silent for a long moment and then she looks down at their daughter. “Amihan,” she murmurs, tasting the word on her tongue. “Our saviour.”

 

 

— ONE YEAR LATER —

 

 

“I can’t _believe_ I let you talk me into this.”

“I can’t talk you into something you already wanted,” Carlos says. “Come on. The dress is ready and they want you to try it.” Clarke doesn’t move from where she’s standing in the small hut, and he sighs and tugs on her arm. “Will you put down the bandages? You can roll them later. It’s your wedding day.”

“It’s not my wedding day,” she replies. They already had that together, and it was enough.

“Yeah, whatever _chica_. Renewal of vows.” He waves a hand impatiently. “The point is, we’re going to have a big wedding party and get drunk, because you didn’t do it the first time around.”

She smiles and puts down the bandages, letting him drag her out of the hut that functions as the village’s medical centre.

She’d never expected that she and Bellamy would ever get _officially_ married, but as the months after Amihan’s birth passed and Carlos bridged the gap between his people and the two of them, she eventually came to learn that the chief could officiate marriages.

Carlos had, technically, been the one to suggest it, after he saw her reaction.

As she and Carlos climb the hill to her cottage together, he asks, “Did you get the ring made?”

“Yep,” Clarke replies, reaching into her pocket to feel the cool metal of it in her pocket. It’s a simple metal ring, made by the blacksmith in a neighbouring village. She’d given them that quarter she found at the beach and they’d melted it to her instructions into a wedding band.

She figured if he went to all that trouble to give her a ring, she should return the favour. That, and maybe putting a ring on his finger would dissuade Sofia from staring at him like she wanted to eat him.

When the door to their cottage swings open, Bellamy’s already there, holding Amihan in one arm and shaving his jaw over the tiny sink with the other.

“Bellamy,” Clarke scolds as she passes him. “You shouldn’t be holding Amy while you’ve got a razor in your other hand.”

“She was crying, what am I supposed to do? Ignore her?” Bellamy replies grumpily as he wipes off his jaw with a cloth. Amihan idly plays with his hair while he does.

Clarke smiles to herself. Bellamy’s such a sucker for Amihan’s tricks, it’s almost funny. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Jealous?” He turns away from the sink, jaw gleaming and clean, and reaches out to tug playfully at her ponytail. “I can spoil you too, if you want.” His voice goes husky at the end of his sentence.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Carlos coughs very loudly, reminding them both that he’s still in the room. He’s walked in on them a couple times over the past year, but it’s kind of his fault for not knocking so Clarke really doesn’t feel that bad about it.

Bellamy turns his face to glare at him.

Carlos shrinks back a little at the level of the glare. “Whoa, what did _I_ do?”

Amihan takes that moment to turn her head towards him to say, delightedly, “ _Chica_.”

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead.

“That,” Bellamy says flatly.

Clarke puts her free hand on her hip. “You were trying to _teach_ her that word, weren’t you?”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Carlos drawls unconvincingly. There’s a knock on the door.

“That’s them with the dress,” Clarke guesses.

“Get out,” Carlos tells Bellamy bluntly. “You’re not supposed to see it. It’s bad luck.”

Despite his protests, Bellamy’s ushered out with the cottage along with Amihan and Carlos, and then some of the ladies from the village come in, holding what looks like an ocean of white fabric. Clarke’s certain she’s going to drown in it, but when all’s said and done and one of them pats on Clarke’s arm and says, “Done,” in her heavy Spanish accent, she finds herself staring into the full length mirror leaning against the wall.

It’s a white dress, relatively simple for a wedding one. But Clarke thinks it’s perfect, especially since the women in the village had made it especially for her. It’s flowy and ruffled and cotton and light and reaches all the way down to her feet; the sleeves wrap around her upper arms, leaving her bare shouldered.

Her hair is done simply, in a French braid that Clarke used to favour when she lived on the Ark. It suits the dress well, and she does an experimental twirl to watch the ruffles float up.

“Okay?” the woman asks.

Clarke beams. “Perfect.”

She stares at herself in the mirror, and it reminds her of old wedding pictures in her home on the Ark. Clarke wished suddenly that her mother could be here to see her in this.

She refuses to be sad on this warm day, though. Her mother _is_ here, she thinks to herself. Abby Griffin will always be with her, as much as all the other people she’s ever loved. And that’s got to be good enough.

“I’m ready,” she says softly, and follows the other women out of the cottage, where they all make their way down to the beach.

The others from the village are there too, and some from the neighbouring ones. Over the past year, Clarke and Bellamy have found a niche for themselves; Clarke as a healer, and Bellamy as a hunter but first and foremost— curiously enough— as a _teacher_. It had happened naturally; children gravitated towards him for his stories, and then it escalated to them trying to repeat them back, and then it had just sort of _happened_. He’s good at it, though; and she can see that it’s good for him, too, having a life that doesn’t revolve around his guns (as much as he likes to polish those).

The tradition in the village is to marry couples in the late afternoon, and party late into the night, so the sun is already low on the horizon when she reaches the crowd. They’re all standing, and in the middle the crowd parts, letting her through.

Bellamy is standing in the sand by the shore, with the chief at his side. He’s wearing a white collared cotton shirt, rolled up his forearms, and black pants. It looks like someone tried to make an attempt to tame his hair and failed miserably, which she’s glad about. Like her, he’s barefoot. His lips part upon seeing her, and then he can’t seem to look away.

She feels the same.

She hardly notices anything else as she walks up to him and takes his hand.

The vows are a blur, and they speak when prompted, all the while not taking their eyes off each other. Bellamy gives her thirteen gold coins, _arras_ , during the ceremony. They won’t belong to her, of course; they’ll go back to the village afterwards, but it’s part of tradition here to do it, and Clarke and Bellamy are happy to go along.

Instead of giving her a ring when prompted, he simply lifts her hand that’s already been adorned more than a year ago and kisses it. But Clarke surprises him, presenting him with the simple silver band.

He looks at it, and then at her. She smiles bashfully. “I had the blacksmith make it for me,” she tells him. “It seemed a little unfair if I was the only one with the ring.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up,” she says fondly. He’s still like this, after all this time. “There’s a _lot_ of things I don’t have to do that I would do in a heartbeat for you, Bellamy.”

Carlos wolf-whistles in the background when they kiss, and Bellamy rolls his eyes, and Clarke slips the ring onto his finger. Then soon enough it’s over.

The reception starts soon after, in the early evening. There aren’t tables or chairs, but blankets spread out onto the beach, and lanterns hung up onto the trees to light up the party long after the sun will set. And the music starts— the instruments are lively; Clarke’s heard recordings before on the Ark, but nothing would prepare her for the energy of the real thing.

Some time into the evening, she’s sitting in the sand by herself, dinner dishes scattered around her and playing with Amihan on her lap, keeping an eye on Bellamy. She and him danced for a while, but then she got tired, and someone else asked if he wanted to learn salsa, so they haven’t spoken in about half an hour. He’s a quick learner. She watches him switch partners several times, and then her attention is distracted when Carlos kneels down next to her, thrusting a steaming hot cup into her hand.

‘I made you some tea.” She stares at it, familiar scent wafting over to her; and then she blushes. She’s drank it before, in the past year, but she’s just remembering the last time that Carlos had made it for her. He laughs. “You’re not going to spit it into the sink this time, are you?”

She downs it in a few gulps to make a point, scalding the insides of her throat. While she coughs and Carlos laughs like a maniac, she sees Sofia on the space designated as a dance floor, holding her hand out as an offer to dance to Bellamy. He looks down at it, smiles gently, and shakes his head quickly before heading off the dance floor over to where Clarke is sitting.

He’s rolled up his sleeves and his pant legs up his calves, and his hair is messier than ever. Clarke watches as his feet kick up sand and says when he’s close enough, “Did you say no to her because you knew I was watching, or?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes in a very exaggerated way before scooping Amihan up from the blanket, tossing her up the air before catching her. She squeals happily, and Bellamy brings her face close to nuzzle his nose against hers. “Your mama is so paranoid,” he tells her. “Isn’t she, Amy?”

Amihan’s answering laugh is heartwarming. She doesn’t know any words yet, really, except for mama and papa, and _chica_ apparently, so she just babbles at Bellamy, and he nods along fondly like it makes complete sense. He hoists her higher in his arms and then he leans over Clarke. “Want to dance?” He’s still breathing a little heavily; salsa is tiring.

She can see sweat gleaming on his collarbone, and his lips look particularly red and inviting in the glow of the lanterns; she suddenly wants nothing more than to be alone with him.

He seems to catch on, and his gaze darkens. “Or… We can dance later.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clarke replies, feeling her own voice go a little lower and more sultry. “I’d like to dance with you _now_.”

“Ick,” Carlos says, bringing them both back again. He stands and reaches out to take Amihan from Bellamy’s arms. “I’m gonna show Amy how to play the drums. Neither of us want to watch you two have eye sex in front of us.” He turns and nods down at the empty cup in Clarke’s hand, winking. “Have fun, _chica_.”

He sets off down the beach to where the music is playing, and Bellamy doesn’t waste any time kissing her, hard. Things escalate rather quickly.

Then he suggests against her lips, “No one will notice if we leave.”

Clarke doesn’t have to be told twice. Bellamy offers a hand up to her, and they dash hand in hand back up the hill, away from the music, and back to their cottage.

They barely make it through the door, and then he’s slamming her roughly against it. Clarke hears his rifle, which has been leaning against the wall, topple over from the force of it. Then they’re kissing and touching, unable to pry their bodies away from one another, as if their skin is magnetic, and he is the North pole to her South.

She pulls at his shirt, ripping off a few buttons in her haste, but neither of them care. He gets it off his arms, and she presses herself against him as they kiss again. He ruts against her, and she can feel how hard he is already. While they kiss, she reaches into his pants, wrapping her hand around him. He huffs out a harsh breath against her lips when she begins to pump slowly, and he starts thrusting shallowly into her hand. With her free hand, she cups the back of his head and brings his forehead to lean against hers. He goes willingly, and she watches him hungrily— watches as his eyes fall closed and a flush rises slowly to his cheeks as she works him in her hand.

She rotates her wrist, and she feels his grip on her hips tighten before before he forcibly removes her hand. She makes a noise of protest— she loves to watch him fall apart in her hands.

He just shakes his head, opening his eyes. Even at this close distance, she can’t really see his irises anymore, at how blown wide his pupils are. “No,” he pants. “Not yet.”

She reaches for him again. “I’m willing to wait an extra fifteen minutes to get you inside me.”

“I’m not,” he bites out, and then successfully distracts her by reaching behind her for the zipper at the back of her dress. “I’ve wanted to take this off you all day.” She arches her back to help him, pressing her chest against his. He doesn’t look away from her, licking his lips as he slowly drags the zipper down.

His hands are hot and searing on her shoulders as he pulls the fabric off her arms, exhaling at the skin he reveals. And then he drags the dress all the way down her body, slowly, kissing the skin he reveals as he goes, until he’s kneeling in front of her, and the fabric pools at her feet.

He’s eye level with her stomach now. He presses his cheek against her navel and curls his hands around the backs of her thighs, sliding them up and down gently. She threads her hands through his hair and they breathe in sync for a moment. Then he whispers, “What do you want, Clarke? Tell me.”

“I want you,” she murmurs, scraping her nails gently against his scalp. “Just you, that’s all.”

He turns a kiss to her navel. “You have me.” Then he lowers his head even more, and she feels his teeth snag on the waistband of her panties, biting down lightly on her hip, before he reaches a hand to pull them down. She steps out of them, and he kisses her knees, up her thighs. She’s embarrassingly wet already, so when he hovers in front of her, breath hot and fanning against her, she immediately widens her stance.

He puts a hand under her right knee and throws it over his shoulder, pushing her back the extra foot so that her back hits the wall and she has something to lean against when he leans forward to press his lips against her without warning.

“Bell— Bellamy,” she cries, bucking her hips forward involuntarily against his mouth.

“Hey, easy,” he murmurs, pressing her back, and then when she does, he pushes two fingers inside her and god, it feels so good.

He’s trying to take his time, but Clarke’s impatient, aching and wet and trembling and just pathetically desperate for his touch where she needs it most right now. He starts up an easy rhythm with his fingers of one hand. They feel so damn good, _shit_ , she’s going to die. She can feel every callus, every knuckle of that finger and how far it reaches.

She’s unaware of how she’s arching forward until his fingers stop moving and his other hand presses against her hip and forces her back against the wall.

He waits until she goes completely still, gaze now looking up through his dark fringe up at her, and then he drags his fingers out, slowly, inch by inch, and then back in all at once. When he starts up again, this time his mouth is on her too, sucking gently on her clit.

Clarke’s hand wrenches against his hair, and he makes a small noise of pain, temporarily taking Clarke out of her haze of lust to soothe her fingers across his scalp. “Sorry,” she gasps, removing her hand to grasp for purchase on the wall instead. Her voice sounds low and throaty.

He hums in response, the vibration sending a zing through her core, and then he’s all business again. But he doesn’t let her come; he sucks hard on her clit and then every time she’s on the edge he eases it back.

She can feel sweat making her hair cling to the nape of her neck. “Come on, Bellamy,” she pants, tugging on his curls.

“Hmm,” he muses down there, and presses an absurdly light kiss to the inside of her thigh. His lips are coated from her, smearing her own wetness against her skin. “I think there’s a magic word.”

She snorts despite herself. “That’s just cheesy— _ahh_!” She’s not prepared for the way his fingers crook forward inside her.

“What was that?” His free hand slides around her thigh again, sliding up to slap the skin lightly, as if a reminder that just because he’s on his knees in front of her, doesn’t mean she’s in charge.

She relents, if only because she’s downright throbbing at this point. “Please,” she gasps, gripping his head probably too hard to be comfortable. “Please, make me come.”

He pauses, as if considering, and then his tongue is back on her, lashing at her, his fingers crook inside her, hitting a spot that he knows drives her crazy— and her leg seizes up on his shoulder when she comes, muffling a scream against her own knuckles.

He’s out of breath, and when he rises back up she can see how painfully hard he’s become She palms him, and he groans and leans forward to lick straight into her mouth without any pretense, hot and dirty. It’s deliberate, to offer her a taste of herself on his tongue, and she takes it, and then continues to kiss him and lick the taste of her off his mouth and jaw.

He steps out of his pants and boxers quickly, and then he grabs her round the waist and tips them both backwards. They fall into bed together sideways, thin mattress bouncing slightly under the sudden weight.

When it’s skin on skin, their pace slows considerably. They kiss and kiss and kiss, bodies pressed against each other but not doing anything else for a long time. He pulls the hair tie out of her braid and combs through her waves with his fingers until her hair is fanned over the pillow.

When she finally wraps her legs around him he rolls her onto her back and sinks into her. They both sigh.

They make love.

Bellamy presses his forehead against hers, arms on either side of her head, and sets a rhythm that’s tortuously slow yet deeply satisfying, the way he grinds against her pubic bone with every thrust.

“I love you,” he breathes while watching her arch up under him. “I love you in every single way a person can love another person. God,” he half-laughs, pressing his face against her collarbone for a moment as if with embarrassment, “I love you so much, I don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes.”

She wants to echo the sentiment to him, but right then when she opens her mouth all that comes out is his name, “Bell— Bell— ,” but it sounds like a love declaration anyway. He surges forward to capture his name from her tongue. While they kiss, she cups his cheeks and hikes her legs higher over his hips, pressing her heel into his lower back, urging him faster.

But he seems determined to go at as slow a pace as possible, and they’re both shaking with the effort of it— and she feels herself start to burn up fiercely, to the point where she’s already on fire when he reaches between them to rub her where she’s most sensitive. At the touch of his thumb, the burn melds easily into pleasure, and she comes for a second time.

“Bellamy,” she cries, head hitting back against the pillows. He leans his cheek against hers and she turns her own head to scrape her teeth down his throat until he tenses up and she feels him empty inside of her. She watches him come undone, watches the crease between his eyebrows smoothes out, the way his lips part soundlessly as if wrapping around a single word: her name.

They lie there for a while afterwards, on their shared bed, and then Clarke voices that they should probably go back to the party since it was, you know, held for _them_.

They only get half-dressed. She piles her hair haphazardly on her head and throws on a simple sundress, and he pulls on a blue tee and his cargo pants. Clarke picks up the teacup Carlos had given her, meaning to give it back to him, and they set out.

But instead, their feet take them some ways away from the party anyway; she can still hear the music distantly, but she feels far removed from it, too. They sit down beside each other with their legs stretched out in front of them, so that when the waves roll over the shore, the water splashes over their feet. For a while they say nothing to each other, each wrapped up in their own contemplation as they stare up into the night sky, cloudless and filled to the brim with stars tonight.

Clarke mindlessly starts digging her teacup into the sand, filling it and then dumping it out. It’s wet and packed, so it falls out in the shape of the cup, and that’s how she and Bellamy end up building sandcastles.

She piles teacups of sand on top of each other, trying to make it as tall as possible, and Bellamy uses his hands to try to shape a heap of his own sand.

“What are you making?” he asks her.

She tilts her head, considering the tall building she’s created so far. “It looks like the old tower in Polis, doesn’t it?”

He grunts, apparently unimpressed. She smiles inwardly. “What are _you_ making then, oh architect?”

He lifts his hands away, showing her the two pyramids that he’s shaped with his hands out of the sand.

They remind her of the Pyramids of Giza that she’s seen in pictures, and she voices it.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, “Do you ever wonder about that? What’s happening on the other side?”

“What? You mean— of the ocean?”

He nods. “Wonder what it’s like over there, now. On the other side of the world.” They stare at the sea for a moment, as if looking hard enough will allow them to see the continents that are distantly across it.

She leans her head against his shoulder. “Maybe we could go there someday.”

He snorts. “I didn’t say I wanted to _go_.”

She smiles, already knowing his argument. “Why not?”

“They’d probably think we were demons,” he goes off immediately. “As soon as we stepped off the boat, they’d have our heads cut off and stuck on poles as warning.”

“That scenario’s not as graphic as usual,” she comments. “You’re getting soft, I think.” She pokes him in the rock-hard stomach as if to make a point.

“I thought you’d appreciate the optimism,” he replies wryly.

There’s a sound behind them behind them. She turns her head, and it’s Carlos, holding Amihan as he wanders over from the direction of the party.

He exhales in relief. “Oh good, you’re both wearing clothes. I didn’t want to bother you, but,” He hefts Amihan higher on his shoulder and says rather redundantly, “she’s crying, and she won’t stop. I think she wants you right now, _chica_.”

“Does she need to nurse?” Clarke wonders, reaching up to take Amihan from Carlos. But the baby doesn’t; she instantly quiets at her mother’s touch, nestling against Clarke’s chest.

“Guess not,” Carlos murmurs, taking in the sight of the three of them sitting in the sand, and then he starts to back away. “Are you guys coming back to the party? There’s fresh churros.”

Oh god, _churros_. Clarke’s stomach rumbles at the thought, and Carlos nods with satisfaction. “Thought that would persuade you.” He nods at them. “Take your time, you know us. The party goes all night.” He grins lopsidedly, stuffs his hands back in his pockets and heads back up the shore. Clarke and Bellamy turn back to their sandcastles. Amihan pushes out of Clarke’s hands and heads straight through to Bellamy, barrelling through Clarke’s sand-tower as she goes.

Clarke gasps as it topples over and Bellamy chuckles. “That’s my girl,” he croons softly, catching Amihan under the arms and swinging her into his own lap. He leans forward to press a kiss against her hair.

Amihan looks a lot like Bellamy, Clarke thinks. She’s got his dark complexion, his curly dark hair, even his nose. But if her eyes were turned towards Clarke, she’d see her own blue irises staring back, and Bellamy likes to joke that she’s got Clarke’s mouth too, especially when she’s pouting.

Amihan babbles excitedly, curling her little fingers around Bellamy’s neck, and he simply watches her fondly. Clarke’s overwhelmed with her feelings of love for both of them.

“It’s been a year,” she muses. “And I still can’t believe sometimes that we were lucky enough to get her.”

He makes a noise of agreement as Amihan curls up against his chest, now yawning. She watches his brows pull together out of contemplation. Something’s on his mind, and she waits for him to speak. It takes a few minutes before he does. “Do you think…” he pauses, and then goes on, “Would this have happened between us, if _they_ weren’t all dead?”

She blinks at the question, unprepared for it. But his tone isn’t accusatory, or angry; just mildly curious, rhetorical almost. He doesn’t even look at her; she realizes he doesn’t expect an answer. But she wants to give him one anyway.

“I don’t know if we ever would have been together, if things kept going the way they did,” she tells him honestly. “Life was always too hectic, and I was too scared.”

He smiles, a small sad one directed at the waves crashing at their feet. “Yeah, I get that.”

She knows he does. Maybe he even felt the same way. That doesn’t make it any better. “But Bellamy— I _hope_ so. But I don’t know. All I _do_ know,” she continues fiercely because she _needs_ him to understand, “is I’ve loved you long before any of this happened. I did love you then, I do love you now, and I _will_ love you, always. Nothing that has happened ever changed that.”

He shifts his gaze from the sea to her, eyes soft. “I believe you.”

She doesn’t think she has more to say, but her lips part and the words fall anyway, the complete and utter truth. “I don’t think it matters what version of reality we would have lived in,” she tells him, “or what universe. I think I would have loved you in every single one.”

His eyelids flutter in that way that they always do, and he breaks their gaze to look down at their joined fingers, swallowing a few times. “I love you too,” he tells her, words quiet and measured and just as meaningful as the speech she just delivered to him.

If they kissed, she wouldn’t be able to watch her love for him mirrored in his eyes, and she’s glad that they don’t right then. The moment ends when Amihan tugs on Bellamy’s shirt, complaining, “ _Daddy_ ,” causing both of them to look down at her.

“Yeah, yeah, we love you too,” Clarke reassures Amihan with a smile, tugging her pigtail. “Don’t worry.”

“No, she just wants attention,” Bellamy says. “She got that from you.”

“Shut up.” He smirks, and after a few moments the music still going on in the distance reminds Clarke there’s somewhere else they should probably be right now. After all, the village had hosted it for them. “Maybe we should go back to the party.”

He nods, but neither of them move just yet. Clarke feels quite content to just sit here with her best friend and her daughter and look up at the starry sky above them.

Because despite the warmth of Carlos’ people, Clarke and Bellamy will probably always feel a little separate from the rest of them. It’s a product of the lives that they have lived, ones that only they can understand about each other. They still live in this cottage far up the hill from everyone else, and they keep to themselves a lot of the time. But it’s okay. They have each other, and they have her. “We’re not the last of our people, anymore,” Clarke murmurs. “There’s three of us now.”

“Three Sky people,” Bellamy muses. “That’s a more manageable number to take care of, don’t you think?”

She feels lighter than she has in a long time. “You know what? I think we can do it.”

And _then_ he kisses her, leaning forward over the pyramids of Giza to meet her in between. After all this time, it still sends her heart leaping with joy. It still feels like coming home after a long day; it still feels like breaking the surface of the water after a dive. It feels like freedom, and freedom tastes like Bellamy Blake.

They part slowly, lips lingering before leaning fully away. Then Bellamy stands and dusts off his pants, hoisting Amihan higher on his hip. “We should get some of those churros now, if you’re ready.” She looks up, sees him offering out his hand to her.

Then her gaze drifts up farther, past his head and then far up, so that she’s looking up at the night sky hanging over the ocean, at the countless stars that wink down fondly. There’s suddenly an aching feeling of familiarity in her chest. Maybe, it occurs to her suddenly, their people made it back up there after all.

She remembers learning in classes on the Ark that the very elements that made up life on Earth came from stardust. Given enough time, those same elements would go back and become part of stars, sprinkled back into the universe again.

It might take millions and millions of years, but maybe that means that Clarke and Bellamy will indeed meet their people again someday; and it won’t be in heaven or in hell, but at _home_.

She smiles and takes his hand.

 

 

— END —

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: That scene where Clarke and Bellamy improvise their wedding and remember their people together by the sea was the first scene I ever wrote for this fic, way back when the story was still just a concept. Despite the intensely bleak future I put them in, I wanted to get them to that place. because I really really love them.
> 
> And writing this story has only made me love these characters more, a feat I didn't know was possible. Not to be dramatic but— the canon story of Bellamy and Clarke has got to be one of the most well-done, deeply satisfying and beautiful love stories on TV, _regardless_ of whether they ever share a kiss on screen. Isn't that amazing? I feel so #blessed to know these characters.
> 
> I have some people to thank here (all usernames listed are for their tumblr's). First of all, my wonderful, funny, kind friends and betas, MJ (@queenclarkegriffine) and Maggie (@redstringbanshee), with whom without this story would've been even more riddled with typos, and I would've been even _more_ confused and indecisive. I also need to thank Rowena (@rosymamacita) for her help on the pregnancy aspects of this, Jen (@thelovelylights) for her Spanish translations, and Kaye (@misterrsulu) for her invaluable cultural guidance. You guys all rock.
> 
> I’d be remiss if I didn’t add that I am deeply grateful for everyone who has left me feedback and encouragement. I quite seriously adore you. One last time I hope you'll leave a comment because they make me really ABSURDLY happy to read/respond to. In any case, it's been wild. And now that it's over I think we all deserve a drink. ;)
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> **Check out the[playlist](http://wellsjahasghost.tumblr.com/post/146385076205/home-is-wherever-im-with-you) my lovely friend [Allie](https://twitter.com/mythicalbellamy) made for this fic!**

**Author's Note:**

> you can also hit me up on tumblr [@wellsjahasghost](http://www.wellsjahasghost.tumblr.com/)


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